“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Carey Below, “that you are losing your
mind.”
Peregrine Carey Below put a hand to his head.
“I’m not so sure I’m not,” he said wearily.
“Is that meant to be rude?”
Peregrine raised his eyes to meet the glint of steel in those of his
wife. For a moment he seemed upon the edge of protest: then the cold,
level gaze bore down his spirit. Peregrine felt as though he were seated
in cold water. He shifted uneasily.
“No, no,” he said. “Of course it isn’t. I—I only——”
“Because if it is,” said Mrs. Below silkily, “if it is, we shall have to
have an understanding.” She bridled menacingly. “I was not bred to
rudeness. Selfishness I can put up with—fortunately for me: I can
suffer a fool—I’ve done it day and night for seven years: but rudeness
is an assault, and that I will not endure.”
“I assure you, Marion——”
“D’you mind holding your tongue?” The words bit at the air, and
Peregrine winced. “As I say, I was not bred to rudeness. My father was
old-fashioned enough to treat my mother with courtesy, if not respect.
I’m not such a fool as to expect those emotions from you because my
father was a gentleman, but if you could manage to suppress your coarser
instincts at least in my presence, I should be grateful. Personally, I
see nothing heinous in my wish to attend a dance. Life’s flat enough,
Heaven knows. Besides, it’s been done before. That is what dances are
for—Peregrine. I confess I did not expect my suggestion to be cordially
received. That would have been unreasonably optimistic. It hasn’t taken
me seven years to discover that social intercourse doesn’t appeal to
you. But it never occurred to me that my mere expression of a very
natural desire would be the signal for an outburst of abuse. But there
again—I never expect contumely. I’ve had it and stood it for seven
years, and I suppose most women would have become case-hardened. But I’m
different. I cannot realize that the old order is changed, that you
cannot spell the word ‘chivalry,’ that to you women are chattels whose
only office is to reflect the glorious will of man. What if our passages
are booked? I suppose they can be cancelled.”
“Certainly, dear,” said Peregrine. “I’ll—I’ll do it this morning.”
“No, you won’t,” said his wife. “You’ll do it this afternoon. This
morning we’re playing golf. Which reminds me—have you ordered a car?”
“I will if you like,” said Peregrine, rising. “I shouldn’t think it was
necess——”
“Why argue?” said Mrs. Below grimly. “Why not be big-minded enough to
admit your mistake? If there is one thing I despise more than another,
it is a man or woman who deliberately sticks to their point when they
know that they’re wrong. And why should I run the risk of having to walk
because you won’t take the trouble to order a car? Of course it’s the
old thing—lack of consideration. First, every possible obstacle is put
in the way of my going to a dance just because you don’t want the bother
of writing a note. Then my convenience is to be jeopardized. . . .” She
raised her eyes to heaven and let the sentence go. “You ought to have
known my father,” she continued piously. “With him my mother came first
_always_. It never occurred to him to argue. She only had to . . .” She
stopped there to peer violently at the floor. “What have you got on your
feet?”
“My—buckskin shoes, dear,” said Peregrine.
“Rubber-soled?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Below inspired vehemently, cast a reproachful glance skywards, as
though to suggest that, while allowing and prepared to suffer the
inscrutable authority of God, she expected it to be counted to her for
righteousness, and set her teeth.
“Go and change,” she said shortly, using the tone of one who, tried
beyond endurance, forgets that he is addressing a fellow-man. “I never
thought I should have to dress you, but it seems I was wrong. We’re
going to play golf, my darling—not tennis. Golf.”
“I—I know,” faltered Peregrine, “but——”
“That’s right,” said his wife. “Argue the point. Give me the lie. Where
are you going?”
“To change,” said her husband thickly.
“What about the car?”
In a silence too charged for words, Peregrine turned.
“You see?” continued his wife. “Your own convenience first, and mine
second. The car’s for me, the shoes are for you. Instinctively you put
the shoes first. . . .” She shrugged her shoulders, and a bleak look
settled on her face. “Of course I blame myself. I’ve spoiled you. You’re
naturally selfish, and because I loved you and wanted you to be happy I
spoiled you to death. And now I’m paying for it.” For a moment she
appeared to contemplate her state. Then she flung up her head. “And you
stand by, looking like a plaster saint!” Her eyes raked him vertically.
“My word, that injured air! Always the little innocent—the poor little
village idiot that’s always being accused of something he’s never done.
I suppose you hope one day to get away with it. Melt my heart, or
something. Well, the sooner you realize that martyrdom makes me tired,
the better for you. If you don’t agree, why not say so and put your
point like a man? But you could never do that. The trouble with you is
that you weren’t at a Public School. There you’d have learned manners
and—well, they’ve got a very short way with plaster saints.”