“You look like a princess,” he said. “Why do we meet so seldom? Where shall we go?”
“If there is a corner reserved for grandmothers I ought to be in it. Good heavens, how everybody screams. How old are you, Bunchy?”
“Fifty-five, m’dear.”
“I’m sixty-five. Do you find people very noisy nowadays or are you still too much of a chicken?”
“I enjoy parties, awfully, but I agree that there ain’t much repose in modern intercourse.”
“That’s it,” said Lady Alleyn, settling herself in a chair. “No repose. All the same I like the moderns, especially the fledgelings. As Roderick says, they finish their thoughts. We only did that in the privacy of our bedrooms and very often asked forgiveness of our Creator for doing it. What do you think of Sarah?”
“She looks a darling,” said Lord Robert emphatically.
“She’s a pleasant creature. Amazingly casual but she’s got character and, I think, looks,” said her grandmother. “Who are those young things she’s talking to?”
“Bridget O’Brien and my young scapegrace of a nephew.”
“So that’s Evelyn Carrados’s girl. She’s like Paddy, isn’t she?”
“She’s very like both of ’em. Have you seen Evelyn lately?”
“We dined there last night for the play. What’s the matter with Evelyn?”
“Eh?” exclaimed Lord Robert. “You’ve spotted it, have you? You’re a wise woman, m’dear.”
“She’s all over the place. Does Carrados bully her?”
“Bully ain’t quite the word. He’s devilish grand and patient, though. But—”
“But there’s something more. What was the reason for your meeting with Roderick the other day?”
“Hi!” expostulated Lord Robert in a hurry. “What are you up to?”
“I shouldn’t let you tell me if you tried. I trust,” said Lady Alleyn untruthfully but with great dignity, “that I am not a curious woman.”
“That’s pretty rich.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Lady Alleyn grandly. “But I tell you what, Bunchy. I’ve got neurotic women on the brain. Nervous women. Women that are on their guard. It’s a most extraordinary thing,” she continued, rubbing her nose with a gesture that reminded Lord Robert of her son, “but there’s precisely the same look in our hostess’s mascaraed eyes as Evelyn Carrados had in her naturally beautiful ones. Or has this extraordinary drink gone to my head?”
“The drink,” said Lord Robert firmly, “has gone to your head.”
“Dear Bunchy, murmured Lady Alleyn. Their eyes met and they exchanged smiles. The cocktail-party surged politely about them. The noise, the smoke, the festive smell of flowers and alcohol, seemed to increase every moment. Wandering parents eddied round Lady Alleyn’s chair. Lord Robert remained beside her listening with pleasure to her cool light voice and looking out of the corner of his eye at Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Apparently all the guests had arrived. She was moving into the room. This was his chance. He turned round and suddenly found himself face to face with Captain Withers. For a moment they stood and looked at each other. Withers was a tall man and Lord Robert was obliged to tilt his head back a little. Withers was a fine arrogant figure, Lord Robert a plump and comical one. But oddly enough it was Lord Robert who seemed the more dominant and more dignified of these two men and before his mild glare the other suddenly looked furtive. His coarse, handsome face became quite white. Some seconds elapsed before he spoke.
“Oh — ah — how do you do?” said Captain Withers very heartily.
“Good evening,” said Lord Robert and turned back to Lady Alleyn. Captain Withers walked quickly away.
“Why, Bunchy,” said Lady Alleyn softly, “I’ve never seen you snub anybody before.”
“D’you know who that was?”
“No.”
“Feller called Maurice Withers. He’s a throw-back to my Foreign Office days.”
“He’s frightened of you.”
“I hope so,” said Lord Robert. “I’ll trot along and pay my respects to my hostess. It’s been charming seeing you. Will you dine with me one evening? Bring Roderick. Can you give me an evening? Now?”
“I’m so busy with Sarah. May we ring you up? If it can be managed—”
“It must be. Au ’voir, m’dear.”
“Good-bye, Bunchy.”
He made his little bow and picked his way through the crowd to Mrs Halcut-Hackett.
“I’m on my way out,” he said, “but I hoped to get a word with you. Perfectly splendid party.”
She turned all the headlights of her social manner full on him. It was, he decided compassionately, a bogus manner. An imitation, but what a good imitation. She called him “dear Lord Robert” like a grande dame in a slightly dated comedy. Her American voice, which he remembered thinking charming in her theatrical days, was now much disciplined and none the better for it. She asked him if he was doing the season very thoroughly and he replied with his usual twinkle that he got about a bit.
“Are you going to the show at the Constance Street Rooms on Thursday afternoon?” he asked. “I’m looking forward to that awfully.”
Her eyes went blank but she scarcely paused before answering yes, she believed she was.
“It’s the Sirmione Quartette,” said Lord Robert. “Awfully good, ain’t they? Real top-notchers.”
Mrs Halcut-Hackett said she adored music, especially classical music.
“Well,” said Lord Robert, “I’ll give myself the pleasure of looking out for you there if it wouldn’t bore you. Not so many people nowadays enjoy Bach.”
Mrs Halcut-Hackett said she thought Bach was marvellous.
“Do tell me,” said Lord Robert with his engaging air of enjoying a gossip. “I’ve just run into a feller whose face looked as familiar as anything, but I can’t place him. Feller over there talking to the girl in red.”
He saw patches of rouge on her cheeks suddenly start up in hard isolation and he thought: “That’s shaken her, poor thing.”.
She said: “Do you mean Captain Maurice Withers?”
“Maybe. The name don’t strike a chord, though. I’ve got a shocking memory. Better be getting along. May I look out for you on Thursday? Thank you so much. Goodbye.”
“Good-bye, dear Lord Robert,” said Mrs Halcut-Hackett.
He edged his way out and was waiting patiently for his hat and umbrella when someone at his elbow said:
“Hullo, Uncle Bunch, are you going home?”
Lord Robert turned slowly and saw his nephew.
“What? Oh, it’s you, Donald! Yes, I am! Taking a cab. Want a lift?”
“Yes, please,” said Donald.
Lord Robert looked over his glasses at his nephew and remarked that he seemed rather agitated. He thought: “What the deuce is the matter with everybody?” but he only said: “Come along, then,” and together they went out into the street. Lord Robert held up his umbrella and a taxi drew in to the kerb.
“Evening, m’lord,” said the driver.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Lord Robert. “Evening. We’re going home.”
“Two hundred Cheyne Walk. Very good, m’lord,” wheezed the driver. He was a goggle-eyed, grey-haired, mottle-faced taximan with an air of good-humoured truculence about him. He slammed the door on them, jerked down the lever of his meter, and started up his engine.
“Everybody knows you, Uncle Bunch,” said Donald in a voice that was not quite natural. “Even the casual taxi-driver.”
“This feller cruises about in our part of the world,” said Lord Robert. He twisted himself round in his seat and again looked at his nephew over the top of his glasses. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I — well — nothing. I mean, why do you think anything’s up?”