"Yes, yes, of course. That fulfils me all right. Shall I put your glass down?"
"That would be rather wasting an opportunity, wouldn't it?" said Mrs. Stratton, with ponderous kittenishness.
As Roger poured out the drink he pondered on the determination with which Mrs. Stratton had dragged into the conversation, within three minutes, what were evidently the two most important achievements of her life: that she had been on the stage, and that she had had a baby. It was plain, too, that in Ena Stratton's opinion these two events reflected the greatest possible credit on Ena Stratton.
What Roger himself thought reflected credit on Ena Stratton was that in spite of the amount of whiskey she had apparently absorbed during the evening, she showed no sign at all of approaching the only thing really worth while in life.
"Thank you," she said, as he gave her the replenished glass. "Let's go up on the roof, shall we? I feel stifled here, in this crowd. I want to look at the stars. Would you mind frightfully?"
"I should love to look at the stars," said Roger.
Carrying their glasses, they went up the little staircase that led to the big flat roof. In the middle of it the three straw figures still dangled from their heavy gallows. Mrs. Stratton gave them a tolerant smile - "Ronald is really rather childish sometimes, isn't he, Mr. Sheringham?"
"It's a great thing to be able to be childish sometimes," Roger maintained.
"Oh, yes, I know. I can be absurdly childish when the fit takes me, of course.'"
The edge of the roof was bounded by a stout railing. The two leaned their elbows on it and gazed down into the blackness that shrouded the back kitchens below. Mrs. Stratton had apparently forgotten that she wanted to gaze upwards, at the stars.
The April night was mild and fine.
"Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. Stratton, "I'm an awful fool, I expect."
Roger deliberated between a polite "Oh, no," a blunt "Why?" or a not very tactful but encouraging "Yes?"
"I feel so terribly introspective tonight," pursued his companion, before he could decide on any of these choices.
"Do you?" he said feebly.
"Yes. Do you often feel introspective, Mr. Sheringham?"
"Not very often. At least, I try not to encourage it."
"It's terrible," said Mrs. Stratton, with gloomy relish.
"It must be."
There was a pause, for contemplation of the terribleness of Mrs. Stratton's introspection.
"One can't help asking oneself, is there really any use in life?"
"A dreadful question," said Roger, keeping his end up as well as he could.
"I've had a baby, I suppose I could say I've had some success on the stage, I've got a husband and a home - but is it worth while?"
"Ah." said Roger sadly.
Mrs. Stratton moved a little nearer to him, so that their elbows touched. "Sometimes I think," she said sombrely, "that the best thing to do would be to put an end to it all."
Roger did not reply that Mrs. Stratton would apparently find a number of persons in hearty agreement with this sentiment. He merely remarked, in a suitably hushed voice: "Oh, come."
"I do really. If only one could find an easy way out . . ."
"Ah!" said Roger, repeating himself.
"You don't think it would be cowardly?"
"Come, come, Mrs. Stratton. You mustn't talk like this, you know. Of course you don't mean it."
"But I do! I assure you, Mr. Sheringham, I lie awake for hours sometimes, just wondering whether a gas oven isn't after all the easiest solution."
"Solution of what?"
"Life!" exclaimed Mrs. Stratton with drama.
"Well, it certainly is a solution. One can't deny that."
"You don't mind me talking to you like this, do you?"
"Not in the least. On the contrary, I take it as a great compliment."
Mrs. Stratton moved an inch nearer. "I've been so much looking forward to meeting you, all the evening. I thought those silly charades would never come to an end. I knew I should be able to talk to you, and I've been feeling so introspective tonight. It's such a relief to talk it out."
"It must be," said Roger heartily.
"Do you believe in the soul?" asked Mrs. Stratton.
'Now she's really off,' thought Roger. "The soul," he repeated in a meditative voice, as if weighing its value as an object of belief.
"I do. For some people. But I don't believe all of us have souls." Her voice throbbed on.
As the discourse proceeded, Roger began to perceive that the lady might be talking about souls, but she was undoubtedly preoccupied with bodies. She was pressing hard against him, her hand was on his sleeve, her whole attitude was one invitation to the waltz.
Very odd, thought Roger, and edged away. Mrs. Stratton immediately pursued him.
As a rule Roger had no need to be pursued. If a lady happened to attract him, and herself was not averse, he saw no reason for wasting useful time. But Mrs. Stratton did not attract him. More, she definitely repelled him. Roger could at that moment imagine no woman in this world with whom he less wanted to dally.
He therefore decided to end the interview. He had no wish to hear more about Mrs. Stratton's soul, its presence or absence, or about her singular powers of self - analysis, or about her considered tendency towards self - immolation. Nor, on this last head, had he any good news to take down to such as would have welcomed an impending self - immolation. It is a truism that those who talk about suicide shrink from committing it, while those who do commit it never chatter about it in advance. There was no chance of Mrs. Stratton ever gratifying her relations - in - law with good news about a gas oven.
For the rest, the lady bored him quite intolerably. She had not proved nearly so interesting as he had hoped; she was just a ridiculous mass of blind self - conceit - an ego - maniac, no doubt, as Dr. Chalmers had said. Any more time spent on her was time wasted, for even as a type she was too exaggerated to be of the least use to a writer of fiction who had to preserve the probabilities.
Roger waited until a sentence came to an end and then asked abruptly if that was not the music. Mrs. Stratton agreed perfunctorily that it might be the music. "We must be getting down," said Roger and led the way.
At the entrance to the ballroom he got rid of her and sought the bar. He felt he needed a drink.
Chatting together there he found Williamson and Colin Nicolson who with a paper frill stuck into his dress waistcoat was calling himself William Palmer. Roger knew Nicolson tolerably well, a hefty young Scotsman who was a better rugger forward than an assistant editor, and a better fisherman than either.
"Ah, Sheringham, been taking the air?"
"Hullo, Colin, is that beer you're drinking? Can you find me a tankard?"
"Certainly I can. It's grand stuff too. Here's all the best. You know Williamson, don't you? Did you ever see anything more magnificent than his disguise? It's Crippen to the life. Upon my word, it is."
Williamson bestowed on Roger his slightly guilty ruminative grin. "You were a long time on the roof, weren't you, Sheringham?"
"It seemed a long time," said Roger frankly.
"Did she tell you she was feeling terribly introspective tonight?"
"She did."
"Did she say that marriage hadn't given her enough fulfilment, or whatever it was?"
"She did."
"Did she tell you that she sometimes thought the best thing to do would be to put an end to it all, if only one could find an easy way out?"
"She did."
"Did she talk like hell about her infernal soul?"
"Like hell she did."
"She's mad," said Mr. Williamson simply.
"She is," said Roger.
"What's all this?" asked Nicolson, bewildered.
"Who's been talking about her infernal soul?"
"I name no names," said Mr. Williamson solemnly, "but it'll be your turn next."