Balefanio: tmp0

Anne got up, felt herself beginning to blush, frowned, walked through into the other room. Should she shut the door? Damn it, no.

And as she picked up the receiver, her voice seemed to go suddenly out of her control. Smooth, false, clear as crystal, she drawled:

"Hullo, Tommy. How goes it?"

The anxious little voice at the other end made her smile faintly to herself.

"Oh, my dear, did you? But how too thrilling___

How too splendid. . . . But that sounds most excit­ing. I'm sure I should love it. ... Wait a minute, my dear, I'll just look and see. I'm not absolutely sure. . . ."

She turned, to catch sight of her flushed cheeks in the mirror. Should she? Would it be amusing? Oh, well, yes. She sighed. Not exactly from bore­dom. Tommy always made her feel—responsible.

Out of bravado, she looked into the other room, where Mary was getting on with the tax-stamps.

"Is there anything special on, this evening?"

"No, I don't think so. I shall probably look in on Georges' little do. I might catch Hauptstein there."

"And you're sure you can manage with the rest of the stuff for tomorrow?"

"Perfectly, thank you, my dear."

Mary smiled. Anne explained, with sudden ex­asperation :

"I'm going out to the theatre. With Tommy Ramsbotham."

"Give him my love."

Their eyes met. Unwittingly, admiringly, Anne grinned at her Mother, thought: You think you're so jolly sly, don't you?

"And do try," said Mary, "to find out some­thing more about the second Mrs. Ram's B."

"I don't expect Tommy knows much."

"Perhaps the whole thing's just another Chapel Bridge fairy story."

"I shouldn't wonder."

"It certainly doesn't sound like our Ram."

And in due course Anne was plunging into a simple but very smart frock, touching her lips with red, powdering, slipping on her new shoes—the complete box of tricks. It was like packing up a parcel of presents for a child. Oh, she felt thirty-five at least—so sophisticated, so chic, so wearily false, so benign, so maternal, so—good God, yes— so tolerant. She peeped at herself in the glass. Whisked downstairs.

She knew the whole programme. It had been

repeated so often. Tommy loved doing things in style. It was no good fussing, or telling him that he was spending all his pocket-money. He did so enjoy it. Am I a fearful cad? she'd often asked her­self, looking round some quite grand restaurant. She decided that she was, and had better get slightly tight. Of course, at the theatre, it would be stalls. She sat beside him, watching a revue, simply trembling in her eagerness to be amused, to show that she was amused. And how he laughed when he saw she was laughing. And if he started laughing first, he looked back, as it were, holding out his hand, imploring her to follow. And then came the interval, when he said very negligently:

"What do you think of it?"

"I think it's absolutely marvellous," she'd say, beaming super-gratitude at him, as though he'd written book and music and was taking all the parts.

"Not too bad, is it?" She could hear his joy, his pride in the revue ring like a telephone bell through his drawl.

And then she'd ask him about the office and whether the work was very hard and how he liked it. And he began to tell her, carefully and seri­ously, suddenly breaking off with:

"You're absolutely certain I'm not boring you?"

Her tone crossed its heart, kissed a dozen testa­ments. She simply couldn't be sufficiently posi­tive:

"My dear, I think it's most frightfully interest­ing."

And then they'd go on to the little place he took such pride in being a member of. His only regret was that it wasn't naughtier. It had never once been raided. And here she was soon beautifully muzzy, giggling up at him as they swayed about the room. Now she didn't care if she was a cad or not. Part of the wall was made of looking-glass. She kept catching sight of herself. Really, she had to admit, those eyes were pretty striking—and how really exquisitely I dance. She sparkled at him. He was flushed with happiness. In the taxi coming home she'd fairly ask for it. He kissed nicely. Life is so terribly complicated, she thought, stroking his hair. I suppose I oughtn't to be doing this. Why the hell not? Oh damn, we're in the King's Road already.

"I say, Anne, you are marvellous."

"Good old Tommy."

When they arrived at the mews she generally had enough sense to insist on his keeping the taxi and going straight back to his digs. Otherwise, he got maudlin. To make up, she kissed him in front of the driver. I am a harlot, she thought.

And next morning, of course, there'd be the usual reaction. It wasn't fair. If he were just an ordinary young idiot—and she'd met plenty. But Tommy was different. He really adored her. What a pleasing thought. She couldn't help grinning as

she pronounced the word mentally to herself. But no, it wasn't fair. It would be almost better if she were just a harpy, luring him on. But I am fond of him, Anne thought. That's what makes it so im­moral. I blow hot and blow cold. If only the poor darling hadn't given himself away so completely. He would put all his cards on the table. He was utterly reckless. He liked to humiliate himself. And that made it so much worse for her. This fatal feeling of security made her tease, patronise him. She behaved vilely. And she knew that he went home and brooded over every word she'd uttered, won­dering: Now what, exactly, did she mean by that? The worst moments were his proposals. That was really the most exquisite misery. She suffered for him—pins and needles, daggers. While he ex­plained his prospects. Gerald didn't care much about the business. And if he, Tommy, worked, it was only a matter of time—"I know it wouldn't be much of a life for you, up there," he said. Some­times she thought him quite shameless, playing on her pity. He was so dreadfully constant. She felt that she'd really been his only love from the cradle —Gatesley was practically that—and would be till the grave. If only he'd flirt with another girl and I got to hear of it, Anne thought, I might be honestly jealous. Yes, I should be. And then we should have got somewhere. But Tommy had no guile. He just lay there and waited to be stepped on.

As the bus turned into Cambridge Circus, Anne saw him faithfully waiting, under the shelter of the Palace Theatre. And suddenly she had a most unpleasant, apprehensive, sinking feeling—worse than she'd ever felt before. It was as if she were going bad. She was neither chic, false, modern nor benign.

Oh hell, she thought—I'm afraid I'm not going to enjoy this evening at all.

II

The little Society to which Major Charlesworth and Mrs. Vernon both belonged met once a week throughout the winter months. Every week it visited some monument or relic of old London—a church, a city hall, an Elizabethan gateway in the corner of a Thames-side goods yard. Its members were chiefly oldish single women, young board-school teachers with pince-nez, an occasional clergyman, scholarly and querulous, asserting him­self at lectures—earnest, curious, simple people, making their rambles into a little cult, mildly perti­nacious, not daunted by the jokes of draymen or the stares of guttersnipes, determined to see everything, but glad of their tea.

Ronald Charlesworth admitted to himself that he felt out of place amongst them. The obvious slight pleasure of the spinster ladies at having a military gentleman in their ranks added to his em­barrassment. But he wasn't going to be put off. As a young man he'd stood a good deal of chaff from his brother officers because of his fondness

for museums, art galleries, old bookshops. Now that he was retired, middle-aged, with the War over, he could indulge his hobbies in comfort. Every week he was to be seen, at the back of the crowd—because, with his height, he could see over them easily—slightly stooping, his beauti­fully shaped jaw somehow recalling that of a warrior in a Japanese print, listening to what was said with a proud, delicate humility, his hands crossed like a martyr's on the crook of his per­fectly rolled umbrella.