She read the letter gratefully, but without a tremor, and called herself a hard-hearted beast. Her mind thus set at rest about Adrian, for she knew his year of leave could be safely left to Hilary, she thought all the time of Hubert with a growing presentiment of evil. She tried to persuade herself that this came from having nothing particular to do, from the reaction after Ferse, and the habit of nerves into which he had thrown her; but such excuses were unconvincing. If they did not believe Hubert sufficiently here to refuse his extradition, what chance would he have out there? She spent surreptitious minutes staring at the map of Bolivia, as if its conformation could give her insight into the psychology of its people. She had never loved Condaford more passionately than during these uneasy days. The place was entailed, and if Hubert were sent out there and condemned, or died in prison, or was murdered by one of those muleteers, and if Jean had no son, it would pass away to Hilary’s eldest boy—a cousin she had barely seen, a boy at school; in the family, yes, but as good as lost. With Hubert’s fate was wrapped up the fate of her beloved home. And, though astonished that she could think of herself at all, when it meant so terribly much more to Hubert, she never quite lost the thought.
One morning she got Clare to run her over to Lippinghall. Dinny hated driving, and not without reason, for her peculiar way of seeing the humours of what she was passing had often nearly brought her to grief. They arrived at lunch time. Lady Mont was just sitting down, and greeted them with:
“My dears, but how provokin’! Unless you can eat carrots—your Uncle’s away—so purifyin’. Blore, see if Augustine has a cooked bird somewhere. Oh! and, Blore, ask her to make those nice pancakes with jam, that I can’t eat.”
“Oh! but, Aunt Em, nothing that you can’t eat, please.”
“I can’t eat anythin’ just now. Your Uncle’s fattin’, so I’m slimmin’. And, Blore, cheese ramequins, and a nice wine—and coffee.”
“But this is awful, Aunt Em.”
“Grapes, Blore. And those cigarettes up in Mr. Michael’s room. Your Uncle doesn’t smoke them, and I smoke gaspers, so we run low. And, Blore.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Cocktails, Blore.”
“Aunt Em, we never drink cocktails.”
“You do; I’ve seen you. Clare, you’re lookin’ thin; are you slimmin’ too?”
“No. I’ve been in Scotland, Aunt Em.”
“Followin’ the guns, and fishin’. Now run about the house. I’ll wait for you.”
When they were running about the house, Clare said to Dinny:
“Where on earth did Aunt Em learn to drop her g’s?”
“Father told me once that she was at a school where an undropped ‘g’ was worse than a dropped ‘h’. They were bringin’ in a county fashion then, huntin’ people, you know. Isn’t she a dear?”
Clare nodded, slightly brightening her lips.
Re-entering the dining-room, they heard Lady Mont say:
“James’s trousers, Blore.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“They look as if they were comin’ down. Can somethin’ be done about it?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Here you are! Your Aunt Wilmet’s gone to stay with Hen, Dinny. They’ll be differin’ all over the place. You’ve got a cold bird each. Dinny, what have you been doin’ with Alan? He’s lookin’ so interestin’, and his leave’s up tomorrow.”
“I’ve not been doing anything with him, Aunt Em.”
“That’s it, then. No. Give me my carrots, Blore. Aren’t you goin’ to marry him? I know he has prospects in Chancery—somewhere—Wiltshire, is it? He comes and puts his head in my hand about you.”
Under Clare’s gaze Dinny sat with fork suspended.
“If you don’t take care, he’ll be gettin’ transferred to China and marryin’ a purser’s daughter. They say Hong Kong’s full of them. Oh! And my portulaca’s dead, Dinny. Boswell and Johnson went and watered it with liquid manure. They’ve no sense of smell. D’you know what they did once?”
“No, Aunt Em.”
“Had hay fever all over my pedigree rabbit—sneezin’ about the hutch, and the poor thing died. I gave them notice, but they didn’t go. They don’t, you know. Your Uncle pets them. Are you to wed, Clare?”
“To ‘wed!’ Aunt Em!”
“I think it’s rather sweet, the uneducated papers use it. But are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Why? Haven’t you the time? I don’t like carrots really—so depressin’. But your Uncle’s gettin’ to a time of life—I have to be careful. I don’t know why men have a time of life. By rights he ought to be over it.”
“He is, Aunt Em. Uncle Lawrence is sixty-nine; didn’t you know?”
“Well, he’s never shown any signs yet. Blore!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Go away!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“There are some things,” said Lady Mont, as the door closed, “that you can’t talk about before Blore—birth control, and your uncle, and that. Poor Pussy!”
She rose, went to the window, and dropped a cat into a flower bed.
“How perfectly sweet Blore is with her!” murmured Dinny.
“They stray,” she said, as she came back, “at forty-five, and they stray at sixty-five, and I don’t know when after that. I never strayed. But I’m thinkin’ of it with the Rector.”
“Is he very lonely now, Auntie?”
“No,” said Lady Mont, “he’s enjoyin’ himself. He comes up here a lot.”
“It would be delicious if you could work up a scandal.”
“Dinny!”
“Uncle Lawrence would love it.”
Lady Mont seemed to go into a sort of coma.
“Where’s Blore?” she said: “I want one of those pancakes after all.”
“You sent him away.”
“Oh! yes.”
“Shall I tread on the gas, Aunt Em?” said Clare; “it’s under my chair.”
“I had it put there for your Uncle. He’s been readin’ me Gulliver’s Travels, Dinny. The man was coarse, you know.”
“Not so coarse as Rabelais, or even as Voltaire.”
“Do you read coarse books?”
“Oh! well, those are classics.”
“They say there was a book—Achilles, or something; your Uncle bought it in Paris; and they took it away from him at Dover. Have you read that?”
“No,” said Dinny.
“I have,” said Clare.
“From what your Uncle tells me, you oughtn’t to.”
“Oh! one reads anything now, Auntie, it never makes any difference.”
Lady Mont looked from one niece to the other.
“Well,” she said, cryptically, “there’s the Bible. Blore!”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Coffee in the hall on the tiger. And put a sniff on the fire, Blore. My Vichy.”
When she had drunk her glass of Vichy they all rose.
“Marvellous!” whispered Clare in Dinny’s ear.
“What are you doin’ about Hubert?” said Lady Mont, in front of the hall fire.
“Sweating in our shoes, Auntie.”
“I told Wilmet to speak to Hen. She sees Royalty, you know. Then there’s flyin’. Couldn’t he fly somewhere?”
“Uncle Lawrence went bail for him.”
“He wouldn’t mind. We could do without James, he’s got adenoids; and we could have one man instead of Boswell and Johnson.”
“Hubert would mind, though.”
“I’m fond of Hubert,” said Lady Mont: “and bein’ married—it’s too soon. Here’s the sniff.”
Blore, bearing coffee and cigarettes, was followed by James bearing a cedar log; and a religious silence ensued while Lady Mont made coffee.
“Sugar, Dinny?”
“Two spoonfuls, please.”