Balefanio - tmp0

On the staircase, Edward announced that the

little eighteenth-century portrait under the window was obviously a trance-picture.

"You turn that face to the wall some evening when you're alone in the house," he said to Mrs. Compstall, "and in half an hour or so you'll find it's turned round again."

Mrs. Compstall looked at him narrowly, scent­ing a joke.

"I don't know that I should hardly like to," she answered at length, "not if Compstall wasn't here."

Pamela and Maurice were in giggles over this for some time. Maurice was slightly hysterical with fatigue. He began sparring with Edward, mocking him, until Edward turned on him suddenly and they crashed down the staircase, almost head first, and out into the garden, through the gates, away across the park. Maurice, nearly a head the taller, ran like a greyhound, but Edward overhauled him. The others watched from the window, quite fascinated.

"By Jove!" said Tommy, "he can run."

When Maurice, caught, returned slowly, pant­ing, towards the house, Edward was scarcely winded at all. He vaulted the fence at the edge of the park and bounded across the garden to meet them in the porch, his face radiant with energy. Maurice followed, gasping. Edward grinned:

"Honour is vindicated."

Mary noticed how thin his hair was getting. When the forelock was pushed aside you could

see the small hollow in the skull where he had had the operation after his motor accident, last winter, in Berlin. It must have been a beastly smash. Mary didn't like looking at it. She asked, smiling:

"Need you give my child indigestion?"

"I'm sorry."

They walked back across the hall and out on to the terrace. The morning was grey and clear, ready for more rain.

"Say, I could look at this view for ever!" ex­claimed Earle.

He seemed so innocent, so much of a Red Indian, in his collar buttoned down at the points, standing there, his hands on the mossy wall, gazing out over the valley. But you wouldn't like it if you had to, my lad, thought Mary, looking at him, mooning in his absurd Yankee vision of the six­teenth century, with a mixture of affection and irritation. And she felt—as so often—yes, they are all my children.

They are all my children, she felt—including Georges, who at that moment came placidly into sight at the end of the terrace, in his broad-brimmed hat, spotted bow tie, check suit and liver-coloured boots, having wandered off and explored the barns.

"I 'ave seen ze hen," he announced, beaming.

The Compstalls, it appeared, had kept poultry as a side-line.

Margaret was making a sketch on the back of an envelope.

"Come and see the hen," said Edward.

"Are you coming?" they asked Mary.

"No, children; I think I'll go and sit down. I shouldn't be sorry to get my poor old feet off" the ground for a few minutes."

"Lazy old sow!" said Maurice.

"Thank you for them kind words, my child."

Mary entered the house, pausing to light a cigarette. She'd noticed that there was still a moderately comfortable sofa in the drawing-room, and anything was preferable to being out-of-doors on a morning like this. All the same, she had to admit she didn't like being here. It was creepy— probably literally creepy, with black beetles—and damp. The place must be an absolute sponge after all these years without regular fires. As a little girl she'd always felt scared of being alone in this part of the house. Nothing would have induced her to use the front staircase after dark. By daylight it was bad enough. You had always the feeling that there was somebody standing just round the corner above, waiting for you to come up. In the archway to the corridor, where there was a deep shadow. Standing stone-still and wait­ing. "My God!" said Mary, almost aloud.

"Why, Mother," said Anne, "did we startle you?"

"You did, indeed, for a moment."

"Did you think we were the family ghost?"

They laughed.

"We were just discussing, "said Anne," whether, if we ring up the mill, there's a sporting chance of scoring a lunch."

"My dear!" said Mary, "we can't possibly all descend."

"Father'd like it," said Tommy earnestly, "he's all alone. He'd never forgive me if he heard you'd been up here and I hadn't brought you over."

"Perhaps the others will want to be getting back."

"You won't be late. We can eat quite early. At twelve, if you like."

"But are you sure, really, that it's all right?"

"Perfectly," said Tommy. "We'll just run up to the Post Office in the car. It won't take a quarter of an .hour."

So that was settled. Mary gave up the idea of a nap with a sigh. After all, it would be nice to see Ram's B.

They were off down the stairs at once. Mary, at the window, saw Edward and Margaret come strolling across the garden. They were evidently having one of their mysterious private talks. Mary had years ago given up trying to guess exactly how things were going at any particular moment.

Edward looked up and saw Mary. He waved to her mechanically, not altering the tone of his voice as he asked:

"And how's the latest? Is he from Oxford too?" Margaret nodded:

"I seem doomed to instruct the young." "Was it his first go?"

"Really, my dear, you presume too far upon my female modesty." Edward grinned.

II

His hands folded upon his umbrella-handle, his head slightly bowed, Major Charlesworth was borne smoothly upwards in the lift, like a martyr ascending into heaven. At the door of Mrs. Vernon's flat he paused for a moment before ring­ing, raised his fingers with a humble, saintly gesture to his thin moustache. Today he felt so little sure of himself that it seemed necessary to rehearse even the half-dozen words he would have to say to the maid.

But it was Mrs. Vernon who opened the door:

"I've been waiting for you."

This afternoon she seemed almost gay. She smiled:

"I've let the maid go out with her young man. We can make tea ourselves."

Actually, there was nothing to do. The tea-things were set out ready on their lace-edged cloth. It was only necessary to bring the kettle to the boil and fill the silver tea-pot. She gave it to Ronald.

He held it like a sacred vessel in a religious mys­tery. She smiled, pouring in the hot water:

"Be careful of your fingers!"

And when they were seated facing each other across the low table, she said:

"And now, tell me all about Thursday."

On Thursday Ronald had been to a sale at an old house in Essex. She had been unable, at the last moment, to accompany him. Ronald de­scribed the remarkable collection of old prints. And there had been a set of chairs he had par­ticularly admired.

"Oh! I do wish I'd been there," she exclaimed.

He wanted to say that without her the sale had lost its interest. That indeed he'd only gone be­cause he knew she would like to hear about it. He answered merely:

"I think it would have interested you."

"I'm sure it would."

She sipped her tea; asked:

"Shall you be going to the meeting on Satur­day?"

"I'm not quite certain."

"I shan't go," she said," unless you'll be coming. When shall you know?"

She smiled, as if challenging his evasion. He coloured a little, but bravely answered:

"I was waiting, really, I meant, to know whether you would care to come."

She smiled at him, quickly, with soft brilliance.

"I often wonder," she said, "how much of my interest in the Past is genuine. I know I should find it terribly dull to go to these places alone."

Ronald felt that his face was betraying him. He murmured:

"One likes to compare notes with someone."

Again she smiled.

"You must promise never to desert me."

She laughed gaily. He laughed. To imitate her was his only protection. Striving to keep his tone light, even gallant, he answered: