“Tell me, how long will it take you?” said Lord Boscastle.
“Eight years,” said Roy at once.
Lord Boscastle reflected.
“I can imagine starting it,” he said. “I can see it must be rather fun. But I really can’t imagine myself having the patience to go through with it.”
“I think you might,” said Roy simply. “I think you might have enjoyed having something definite to do.”
“Do you think I could have managed it?”
“I’m sure,” said Roy.
“Perhaps I might,” said Lord Boscastle with a trace of regret.
The drawing-room was left with no one speaking. Then Lady Muriel firmly suggested that her brother ought to see Roy’s manuscripts. It was arranged (Lady Muriel pushing from behind) that the Boscastles should lunch with Roy next day.
A few minutes later, though it was only half-past ten, Roy made his apologies to Lady Muriel and left. She watched him walk the length of the room: then we heard his feet running down the stairs.
“He was a little naughty with you at dinner, Hugh,” she said to her brother, “but you must admit that he has real style.”
“Young men ought to get up to monkey tricks,” said Lord Boscastle. “One grows old soon enough. Yes, he’s an agreeable young fellow.”
He paused, drank some whisky, enquired as though compelled to: “Who is his father?”
“A man called Calvert,” said the Master.
“I know that,” said Lord Boscastle irritably.
“He’s distinctly rich and lives in the midlands.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, Hugh,” said the Master, with a fresh smile.
“But I must say,” Lord Boscastle went on, “that if I’d met Calvert anywhere I should really have expected to know who he was.”
This implied, I thought, a curious back-handed social acceptance. But it was not necessary, for the Master said: “He’s got everything in front of him. He’s going to be one of the great orientalists of the day. Between ourselves, I believe that’s putting it mildly.”
“I can believe you,” said Lord Boscastle. “I hope he enjoys himself. We must keep an eye on him.”
That meant definite acceptance. It was not, I thought, that Roy had “real style”, had been to Lord Boscastle’s school, could pass as a gentleman through any tests except Lord Boscastle’s own; it was not only that Roy had struck a human want in him, by making him think of how he might have spent his life. He might have received Roy even if he had liked him less: for Lord Boscastle had a genuine, respectful, straightforward tenderness for learning and the arts. His snobbery was a passion, more devouring as he got older, more triumphant as he found reasons for proving that almost no one came inside his own preserve, could truly be regarded as a gentleman; nevertheless, he continued to have a special entrance which let in his brother-in-law, which let in Roy, which let in some of the rest of us; and he welcomed us more as his snobbery outside grew more colossal and baroque.
Lady Boscastle was trying to resume our conversation, but the others were still talking of Roy. Mrs Seymour was rapt with vague enthusiasm.
“He’s so handsome,” she said.
“Interesting-looking, I think I should say,” commented Lady Boscastle, a shade impatiently.
“He’s not handsome at all,” said Joan. “His nose is much too long.”
“Don’t you like him?” cried Mrs Seymour.
“I can never get him to talk seriously,” the girl replied.
“He’s very lucky.” Mrs Seymour’s enthusiasm grew. “It must be wonderful to be A1 at everything.”
No one could be freer from irony than Mrs Seymour; and yet, even on that night, those words rang through me with a harsh ironic note.
The Master was saying: “One thing is certain. We must elect the young man to a fellowship here before long.”
“I should have thought you would jump at him,” said Lord Boscastle.
“No society of men is very fond of brilliance, Hugh,” said the Master. “We needs must choose the dullest when we see it. However, I hope this time my colleagues will agree with me without undue pressure.”
He smiled confidentially at me.
“Between ourselves, Eliot,” he went on, “when I reflect on the modest accomplishments of some of our colleagues, I think perhaps even undue pressure might not be out of place.”
3: Two Resolves
I woke because of a soft voice above my bed — “beg pardon, sir, beg pardon, sir, beg pardon, sir”. In the half-light I could see Bidwell’s face, round, ruddy, simultaneously deferential and good fellow-like, wide open and cunning.
“I don’t know whether I’m doing right, sir. I know I oughtn’t to disturb you, and” — he inclined his head in the direction of the college clock — “that’s got twenty minutes to go to nine o’clock. But it’s a young lady. I think it’s a young lady of Mr Calvert’s, sir. She seemed what you might call anxious to see you.”
I let him pull up the blind, and the narrow cell-like room seemed bleaker than ever in the bright cold morning sunlight. I had drunk enough at the Lodge the night before to prefer to get up slowly. As I washed in warmish water from a jug, I was too moiled and irritated to wonder much who this visitor might be.
I recognised her, though, as soon as I saw her sitting in an armchair by my sitting-room fire. I had met her once or twice before; she was a young woman of Roy’s own age, and her name was Rosalind Wykes. She came across the room to meet me, and looked up contritely with clear brown eyes.
“I’m frightfully sorry to disturb you,” she said. “I know it’s very wicked of me. But I thought you might be going out to give a lecture. Sit down and I’ll get your breakfast for you.”
Breakfast was strewn about the hearth, in plates with metal covers on top. Rosalind took off the covers, dusted the rim of the plates, dusted a cup, poured out my tea.
“I must say they don’t look after you too well,” she said. “Get on with your breakfast. You won’t feel so much like wringing my neck then, will you?”
She was nervous; there was a dying fall in her voice which sometimes made her seem pathetic. She had an oval face, a longish nose, a big humorous mouth with down just visible on her upper lip. She was dressed in the mode, and it showed how slender she was, though she was wider across the hips than one observed at a first glance. She was often nervous: sometimes she seemed restless and reckless: yet underneath one felt she was tough and healthy and made for a happy physical life. Her hair was dark, and she had done it up from the back, which was unusual at that time: with her oval face, brown eyes, small head, that tier of hair made her seem like a portrait of the First Empire — and in fact to me she frequently brought a flavour of that period, modish, parvenu, proper outside and raffish within, materialistic and yet touching.
I drank two cups of tea. “Better,” I said.
“You look a bit morning afterish, I must say,” said Rosalind. At that time she was very prim in speech, much more so than most of the people among whom she moved: yet she had a singular gift for investing the most harmless remark with an amorous aura. My state that breakfast-time was due, of course, to nothing more disreputable than a number of glasses of claret at dinner and some whiskies afterwards with the Master and Lord Boscastle; but, when Rosalind mentioned it, it might have been incurred through an exhausting night of love.