‘We not infrequently have wine on Sunday,’ said George.
‘A very sad occasion,’ said their mother, shaking her head as she raised her glass. ‘We can’t have Cecil drinking water on his last night with us. Whatever would he think.’
‘I should think you jolly insensitive,’ said Cecil, knocking back his glass of hock.
‘Indeed!’ said Daphne, who was still forced to keep their normal Sunday commons. Sunday was Cook’s night off, and they had sat down to a bare supper of jellied chicken and salad. They had given up the festive style, there was a sense of looking ahead – after the champagne and Tennyson of their earlier dinners, the table tonight seemed tactfully to prepare them for the prose of Monday morning.
‘Yes, we’ll be sorry to see you go, old chap,’ said George.
‘Such a pity…’ said his mother, with an uncertain little smile at Daphne.
Daphne in turn peered at George, who did look oddly wretched – she knew the way his face went stiff with feeling, just as she knew his irritable frown when he found he was being stared at. ‘You’ll be back in Cambridge in a fortnight,’ she said.
‘Oh, I think we’ll get by,’ said Cecil absently.
Daphne said, ‘I mean, George is all right, but we won’t see Cecil for ages, perhaps never again!’
Cecil seemed pleased by this histrionic claim, and his dark eyes held hers as he laughed, and said, ‘You must come to Cambridge too. Mustn’t she, Georgie?’
‘Oh, rather…’ said George dully.
‘Hmm…’ said Daphne.
‘No, of course you must,’ said George in a sincere tone; though she knew that George didn’t want her in Cambridge, ‘tagging along’, breaking in on his important discussions with Cecil, and all the other things she was prone to do.
‘You might all come up for the French play,’ said Cecil.
‘I suppose so,’ said Daphne, though she felt she heard in this general invitation a note that she hadn’t suspected before, the note of a general boredom.
‘What are you doing?’ said her mother.
‘The
‘It’s in French, you know,’ said George, which if it was meant to put his sister off was fairly effective.
‘I see,’ said Daphne. ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to follow a whole play in French.’ She hardly thought it worth it just to watch Cecil prancing around, with a cloak and sword, probably. But at once she had a pang at the thought of missing it.
‘How marvellous,’ said her mother graciously, excusing herself as well.
A little later Cecil said to George, as if the others weren’t there, ‘I’ll have to get ahead with my paper on Havelock this week,’ so that Daphne had a clear sense that he had already left them, might even have preferred to go today, after lunch.
When supper was over, George was sent round to the Cosgroves’ on some mission he clearly thought beneath him, Hubert claimed he had letters to write, and their mother, trailing into the drawing-room, paused, raised a finger, and went out again. Cecil and Daphne were left for a minute on the hearth-rug. Daphne saw this as the threshold to the grownup end of the evening, with social requirements she wasn’t quite sure of.
‘I don’t suppose you want to hear the gramophone,’ she said. She had a sense of opportunity, made more incoherent by her new fear of boring Cecil.
‘Not specially,’ he said, casually but kindly, with a smile she hadn’t seen before, a candid gape that slightly startled her, and was probably a Cambridge thing: it was hard to work out, but at Cambridge it seemed it was almost a sign of respect to be disrespectful, to say just what you felt at any time. Well, candour was their watchword! Cecil was fingering in his waistcoat pocket, then brought out his little clipper. He said, ‘I wonder if Miss Sawle would care to keep me company while I enjoy my cigar?’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Daphne. ‘Oh, I’ll get a coat,’ and she ran to the cloakroom under the stairs. It was such an exciting idea that there were bound to be strenuous arguments against it. But that was part of Cecil’s atmosphere and appeal. She came back, not with her own dull coat, but with one of George’s old tweed jackets round her shoulders. She liked the air of improvisation, a man’s jacket seemed to show she was up for a lark, and to carry some chivalrous hint of her need for protection. ‘It’s a little bit smelly,’ she said; though she hardly imagined that would worry Cecil.
‘Well, I’m going to make a smell too.’
‘Well, quite.’
‘I may be being too sensitive,’ said Cecil, glancing towards the door. ‘The General’s so down on smoke, at home we all sneak off to the smoking-room. She’s made it into quite a guilty pleasure.’
‘No, no,’ said Daphne.
Cecil drew out a cigar case from a surprising pocket. ‘I’ve got two, if you’re tempted to try again,’ he said, and uncapped the stiff leather sheath to show her the tops of them. They made her think of soldiers, or the cartridges in Hubert’s rifle. She saw it might be wittier not to answer, and he seemed amused by her condescending smile. She knew she should call to her mother, but sighed just to think of the objections, and followed Cecil out into the garden, leaving the french window ajar.
It was quite a bit colder than last night, though she was not going to mention it. She said, ‘Cecil, I think I shall always associate
‘Well…’ – Cecil was fussing with a lighted match and making impatient appreciative noises as he drew on the cigar. Then the newly conjured smoke was all around them.
‘Shall we sit here?’
‘Let’s walk on,’ said Cecil, moving her along past the windows of the sitting-room. ‘We’ll see what the stars are up to, shall we?’
‘All right,’ said Daphne, and as he crooked his arm she reached up to slip her hand through it. As well as everything else, there was something entirely proper about Cecil; he perhaps wasn’t even aware of her happy sense of play-acting, her toss of the head in the dark as she took his arm. Then George’s jacket, merely slung round her shoulders, slipped off.
‘Here, let me help you.’ In the gloom on the edge of the lawn Cecil held the coat and patted her shoulders when she’d got it on.
‘I must look like a tramp,’ she said, her hands covered by the sleeves, silky linings cold for a moment on bare arms, the weight and smell of the thing hugged round her.
‘Do it up,’ said Cecil, his cigar between his teeth. And again his large hands seemed to take care of her, to be larger and more capable than ever. Then he offered his arm once more.
They went on a few leisurely paces, Daphne happily self-conscious, Cecil a touch reserved, though she wasn’t sure of his face, and perhaps he was merely working out the stars. She wondered if he was thinking of the hammock again – and was embarrassed to think of it herself after what had happened. She knew he’d had three or four glasses of wine; decisions would come easily to him, though to a sober person they might seem whimsical and delayed. She looked up, above the silhouette of the tree-tops. ‘I fear it’s too cloudy tonight, Cecil,’ she said.
Cecil huffed out another cloud of rich, sour smoke, and cackled vaguely. ‘Were you in the woods for long this afternoon?’ he said.
‘This afternoon, oh, not really.’
‘You didn’t get much of a walk.’
‘Well, when I met you I came home, of course.’
She felt him press her arm more tightly against his side, and the beautiful grown-up presence of Cecil, his height and his muscular warmth under evening dress, and even his voice, which she’d once thought so cutting and grand, slightly turned her head. ‘It must have been someone else we saw earlier on. I said to Georgie, “Isn’t that Daph?” but by the time he looked whoever it was had gone.’
‘Well, it could have been. Did you call?’
‘You know, I wasn’t sure.’
‘Lots of people do walk there.’
