It was a room on the same scale as those at Bryanston Square, but brighter and more fashionable. The whole house was a little less massive, the decoration a little more modern, than Mr March’s, and the company less exclusively family than anywhere else in the March circle. One remembered Mr March’s stories about Herbert as the rebel of an older generation.
Standing in front of a pot of geraniums, Mr March himself was telling Sir Philip an anecdote with obscure glee. It was the obscure glee that usually possessed him when someone committed a faux pas against the Jewish faith. ‘The new parson from the church round the corner paid me a visit the other day,’ said Mr March. ‘I thought it was uncommonly civil of him, but I was slightly surprised to have to entertain anyone of his persuasion. The last parson I was obliged to talk to descended from the ship at Honolulu when I was going round the world in ’88. He was an extremely boring fellow. Well, as soon as I decently could, I asked this one why he had given me the pleasure of his company. And he had an unfortunate stammer, but gradually it emerged that he wanted a contribution for his Easter offering. So I said, I should like to be informed if you still pray on certain occasions for Jews, Turks, and other infidels. He had to admit that he did. I replied that being a Jew I might be excused for finding the phrase a little invidious, and I couldn’t make a donation for his present purposes. But I didn’t want to embarrass him because he’d chosen an unfortunate occasion. So I said: “Come again at Christmas. We’ve got some common ground, you know. I’ll give you something then.”’
Just then Caroline’s son Robert brought Ann to be introduced to Sir Philip. As usual, she was one of the smartest women in the room; as usual, she stayed quiet, let Sir Philip and Robert talk, got over her shyness just enough to put in a question. Mr March broke in: ‘This is the first time I have seen you since you were good enough to come to my house after a concert, which you possibly remember.’
‘Yes, Mr March,’ said Ann.
‘She is rather competed for, Uncle Leonard,’ said Robert. He was a middle-aged man, bald, with a face more predatory than any other of the Marches — predatory but not clever. As soon as he spoke, Mr March resented his flirtatious air; and Mr March’s own manner became more formidable and at the same time more intimate.
‘I am well aware that it would be astonishing if she had time to spare for elderly acquaintances,’ he said brusquely and, ignoring Robert, turned to Ann. ‘I take it that my son Charles has been lucky enough to secure a certain fraction of your leisure.’
‘I’ve seen him quite often,’ she said.
‘I assumed that must be so.’
Then the music started up. Robert took her on to the floor. I went to find a partner. As the first hour passed and I danced with various March cousins and visitors, I noticed that Charles and Ann had danced together only once. Whoever they had as partners, they were each followed by a good many sharp, attentive eyes. She was striking-looking in any company. And to some there, particularly among the women, he was the most interesting of the younger Marches.
Katherine and Francis, on the other hand, had decided that it was no use pretending to avoid each other. It seemed the sensible thing to take the polite average of dances together. As they did so, one could not fail to realize that some of the March aunts were watching them. Several times I saw Caroline’s lorgnon flash, and even to me she shoved in an enquiry, when we happened to visit the refreshment table at the same time.
‘How well do you know this young fellow Francis Getliffe?’ she said.
I tried to pass it off, for she was too deaf to talk to quietly, and there were several people round us.
‘I want to know,’ said Caroline, ‘whether he’s engaged yet?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Why isn’t he? He must be getting on for thirty. What has he been doing with himself?’
I smiled: it was easier than producing a non-committal shout.
She went on with the interrogation. She had hoped that Francis might be entangled elsewhere. That hope extinguished, she was framing her plan of campaign.
When I returned to the drawing-room, Ann was dancing with Albert Hart, and Charles with the cousin for whom the dance was being held, a good-looking, strapping girl. For the first time that night, I found Katherine free. She whispered at once, as we went on to the floor: ‘It’s slightly embarrassing being under inspection, isn’t it? You would have expected Francis to mind tremendously, wouldn’t you have expected him to? But he seems to be enjoying himself.’
She was so happy, despite her anxiety, despite the prying eyes, that it was obvious how well — when she and Francis were together — the night was going. She went on: ‘You know, I wish Charles and Ann would decide what they want to happen. They’ve got to settle down some time, and it won’t get any easier. It’s preposterous that she should have this man Porson trailing after her tonight.’
She looked up at me. ‘I think she enjoys it — am I being unfair? I expect I envy her, of course. Mind you, I know she’s made a colossal difference to Charles.
Then she glanced across the room, where Francis was talking to Mr March.
‘But it is a superb party, don’t you think?’ she burst out. ‘Francis dances abominably, but I forgive him even that. It means that I’m nothing like so jealous when I see him dancing with other women. I can always console myself with how disappointed they must be when they get a fairly nice-looking young man for a partner — at least I think he’s fairly nice-looking — and he promptly insists on putting his foot on their toes.’
She was bubbling with happiness.
‘It is a superb party, Lewis,’ she said. She was silent for a moment, and I saw that she was smiling.
‘What are you thinking?’ I said.
She chuckled outright.
‘I’ve remembered what I used to feel about the young men Charles brought to the house. I never believed that they could possibly want to see me. I thought they only came because they wanted to see Charles or needed a house to stay in when they were in London.’
I was sorry when the dance ended; at that time, as I watched others happy in love, I was sometimes envious — but not of Katherine. It was difficult to begrudge her any luck that came her way.
The next dance I watched by the side of Mr March and Sir Philip. Mr March was studying his dance programme before the band began.
‘Though why they find it necessary to issue programmes to the superannuated members of the party, I have never been able to understand,’ he said to me. ‘Possibly so that the superannuated can imbibe the names of these productions that your generation are accustomed to regard as tunes.’
The band struck up, couples went on to the floor; Charles was dancing with Ann, Katherine with Francis. Mr March stopped talking; he let his programme swing by the pencil; he watched them. Katherine was smiling into Francis’ face; Charles and Ann were dancing without speaking.
Philip also was watching.
‘How many times,’ he asked Mr March, ‘has Katherine been to the regular dance this year?’
‘She has missed occasionally.’
‘How many times has she been?’
‘I can’t be expected to recollect particulars of her attendance,’ said Mr March.
Philip went on asking; Mr March fidgeted with his programme and gave irascible replies. If he had been suppressing his knowledge about Katherine and Francis, he could do so no longer.
Philip’s glance followed Katherine round the room. But even as he answered the questions, Mr March did not look in her direction. His expression was fixed and anxious: he had eyes for no one but his son.