On the way out, I glanced by chance through the door leading to the room where we had dined. Stringham was still sitting in his place at the table, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. The dining-room was otherwise deserted. I went through the door and took the chair beside him.
‘Hullo, Nick.’
‘Are you going to sit here all night?’
‘Precisely the idea that occurred to me.’
‘Won’t it be rather gloomy?’
‘Not as bad as when they were all here. Shall we order another bottle?’
‘Let’s have a drink at my club.’
‘Or my flat. I don’t want to look at any more people.’
‘Where is your flat?’
‘West Halkin Street.’
‘All right. I shan’t be able to stay long.’
‘Up to no good?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I haven’t seen you for ages, Nick.’
‘Not for ages.’
‘You know my wife, Peggy, couldn’t take it. I expect you heard. Not surprising, perhaps. She has married an awfully nice chap now. Peggy is a really lucky girl now. A really charming chap. Not the most amusing man you ever met, but a really nice chap.’
‘A relation of hers, isn’t he?’
‘Quite so. A relation of hers, too. He will be already familiar with all those lovely family jokes of the Stepney family, those very amusing jokes. He will not have to have the points explained to him. When he stays at Mountfichet, he will know where all the lavatories are — if there is, indeed, more than one, a matter upon which I cannot speak with certainty. Anyway, he will not always have to be bothering the butler to direct him to where that one is — and losing his way in that awful no-man’s-land between the servants’ hall and the gun-room. What a house! Coronets on the table napkins, but no kind hearts between the sheets. He will be able to discuss important historical events with my ex-father-in-law, such as the fact that Red Eyes and Cypria dead-heated for the Cesarewitch in 1893—or was it 1894? I shall forget my own name next. He will be able to talk to my ex-mother-in-law about the time Queen Alexandra made that double entendre to her uncle. The only thing he won’t be able to do is to talk about Braque and Dufy with my ex-sister-in-law, Anne. Still, that’s a small matter. Plenty of people about to talk to girls of Braque and Dufy these days. I heard, by the way, that Anne had got a painter of her own by now, so perhaps even Braque and Dufy are things of the past. Anyway, he’s a jolly nice chap and Peggy is a very lucky girl.’
‘Anne has married Dicky Urtifraville.’
‘Not the Dicky Umfraville?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I never.’
Even that did not make much impression on him. The fact that he had not already heard of Anne Stepney’s marriage suggested that Stringham must pass weeks at a time in a state in which he took in little or nothing of what was going on round him. That could be the only explanation of ignorance of an event with which he had such close connexions.
‘Shall we make a move?’
‘Where is Peter Templer? I saw his face — sometimes two or three of them — during that awful dinner. We might bring him along as well. Always feel a bit guilty about Peter.’
‘He has gone home.’
‘I bet he hasn’t. He’s gone after some girl. Always chasing the girls. Let’s follow him.’
‘He lives near Maidenhead.’
‘Too far. He must be mad. Is he married?’
‘His wife has just left him.’
‘There you are. Women are all the same. My wife left me. Has your wife left you, Nick?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Lucky man. Who was Peter’s wife, as they say?’
‘A model called Mona.’
‘Sounds like the beginning of a poem. Well, I should have thought better of her. One of those long-haired painter fellows must have got her into bad habits. Leaving her husband, indeed. She oughtn’t to have left Peter. I was always very fond of Peter. It was his friends I couldn’t stand.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Look here, do let’s have another drink. What happened to Le Bas?’
‘He is going to be taken home in an ambulance.’
‘Is he too tight to walk?’
‘He had a stroke.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No — Brandreth is looking after him.’
‘What an awful fate. Why Brandreth?’
‘Brandreth is a doctor.’
‘Hope I’m never ill when Brandreth is about, or he might look after me. I’m not feeling too good at the moment as a matter of fact. Perhaps we’d better go, or Brandreth will start treating me too. It was Widmerpool’s speech, of course. Knocked Le Bas out. Knocked him out cold. Nearly knocked me out too. Do you remember when we got Le Bas arrested?’
‘Let’s go to your flat.’
‘West Halkin Street. Where I used to live before I was married. Surely you’ve been there.’
‘No.’
‘Ought to have asked you, Nick. Ought to have asked you. Been very remiss about things like that.’
He was extremely drunk, but his legs seemed fairly steady beneath him. We went upstairs and out into the street.
‘Taxi?’
‘No,’ said Stringham. ‘Let’s walk for a bit. I want to cool off. It was bloody hot in there. I don’t wonder Le Bas had a stroke.’
There was a rich blue sky over Piccadilly. The night was stiflingly hot. Stringham walked with almost exaggerated sobriety. It was remarkable considering the amount he had drunk.
‘Why did you have so many drinks tonight?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I do sometimes. Rather often nowadays, as a matter of fact. I felt I couldn’t face Le Bas and his Old Boys without an alcoholic basis of some sort. Yet for some inexplicable reason I wanted to go. That was why I had a few before I arrived.’
He put out his hand and touched the railings of the Green Park as we passed them.
‘You said you were not married, didn’t you, Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Got a nice girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take my advice and don’t get married.’
‘All right.’
‘What about Widmerpool. Is he married?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I’m surprised at that. Widmerpool is the kind of man to attract a woman. A good, sensible man with no nonsense about him. In that overcoat he used to wear he would be irresistible. Quite irresistible. Do you remember that overcoat?’
‘It was before my time.’
‘It’s a frightful shame,’ said Stringham. ‘A frightful shame, the way these women go on. They are all the same. They leave me. They leave Peter. They will probably leave you. … I say, Nick, I am feeling extraordinarily odd. I think I will just sit down here for a minute or two.’
I thought he was going to collapse and took his arm. However, he settled down in a sitting position on the edge of the stone coping from which the railings rose.
‘Long, deep breaths,’ he said. ‘Those are the things.’
‘Come on, let’s try and get a cab.’
‘Can’t, old boy. I just feel too, too sleepy to get a cab.’
As it happened, there seemed to be no taxis about at that moment. In spite of what must have been the intense discomfort of where he sat, Stringham showed signs of dropping off to sleep, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the railings. It was difficult to know what to do. In this state he could hardly reach his flat on foot. If a taxi appeared, he might easily refuse to enter it. I remembered how once at school he had sat down on a staircase and refused to move, on the grounds that so many annoying things had happened that afternoon that further struggle against life was useless. This was just such another occasion. Even when sober, he possessed that complete recklessness of behaviour that belongs to certain highly strung persons. I was still looking down at him, trying to decide on the next step, when someone spoke just behind me.