So Peter, little accustomed to their society, began, awkwardly at first, taking out a series of very young and very eligible girls; he quickly gained confidence; it was easy as falling off a log. Soon there were a dozen mothers who were old-fashioned enough to be pleasurably excited at the prospect of finding in their son-in-law all the Victorian excellencies of an old title, a new fortune, and a shapely leg in blue overalls.
“Peter,” Margot said to him one day. “D’you ever give yourself time from debutantes to see old friends? What’s become of Angela? I never see her now.”
“I suppose she’s gone back to the country.”
“Not with Basil?”
“No, not with Basil.”
But she was living still above the block of flats in Grosvenor Square. Below, layer upon layer of rich men and women came and went about their business, layer below layer down to street level; below that again, underground, the management were adapting the basement to serve as an air raid shelter. Angela seldom went beyond her door, except once or twice a week to visit the cinema; she always went alone. She had taken to wearing spectacles of smoked glass; she wore them indoors, as well as out; she wore them in the subdued, concealed lighting of her drawing-room, as she sat hour after hour with the radio standing by the decanter and glass at her elbow; she wore them when she looked at herself in the mirror. Only Grainger, her maid, knew what was the matter with Mrs. Lyne, and she only knew the shell of it. Grainger knew the number of bottles, empty and full, in the little pantry; she saw Mrs. Lyne’s face when the blackout was taken down in the morning. (She never had to wake Mrs. Lyne nowadays; her eyes were always open when the maid came to call her; sometimes Mrs. Lyne was up and sitting in her chair; sometimes she lay in bed, staring ahead, waiting to be called.) She knew the trays of food that came up from the restaurant and went back, as often as not, untasted. All this Grainger knew and, being a dull sensible girl, she kept her own counsel; but, being a dull and sensible girl, she was spared the knowledge of what went on in Mrs. Lyne’s mind.
So the snows vanished and the weeks of winter melted away with them; presently, oblivious of the hazards of war, the swallows returned to their ancestral building grounds.
chapter 3 SPRING
Two events decided Basil to return to London. First, the yeomanry moved back to the country under canvas. Freddy telephoned to Barbara:?
“Good news,” he said; “we’re coming home.”
“Freddy, how splendid,” said Barbara, her spirits falling a little. “When?”
“I arrive tomorrow. I’m bringing Jack Cathcart; he’s our second-in-command now. We’re going to lay out a camp. We’ll stay at Malfrey while we’re doing it.”
“Lovely,” said Barbara.
“We’ll be bringing servants, so we’ll be self-supporting as far as that goes. There’ll be a couple of sergeants. Benson can look after them. And I say, Barbara, what do you say to having the camp in the park?”
“Oh no, Freddy, for God’s sake.”
“We could open up the saloon and have the mess there. I could live in. You’d have to have old Colonel Sproggin and probably Cathcart, too, but you wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
“Please, Freddy, don’t decide anything in a hurry.”
“Well I have practically decided. See you tomorrow. I say, is Basil still with you?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t see him getting on terribly well with Cathcart. Couldn’t you give him a gentle hint?”
Barbara hung up sadly and went to make arrangements for Freddy’s and Major Cathcart’s reception.
Basil was at Grantley Green. He returned to Malfrey after dinner, to find Barbara still up.
“Darling, you’ve got to go away.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Freddy’s coming home.”
“Oh damn Freddy; who cares for him? Bill’s coming home.”
“What does she say?”
“Believe it or not, she’s as pleased as Punch.”
“Ungrateful beast,” said Barbara; and, after a pause, “You never wrote that book either.”
“No, but we’ve had a lovely time, haven’t we, Babs? Quite like the old days.”
“I suppose you’ll want some money.”
“I could always do with some more, but as it happens I’m quite rich at the moment.”
“Basil, how?”
“One thing and another. I tell you what I will do before I go. I’ll get the Connollies off your hands again. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting them rather in the last few weeks.”
That led to the second deciding event.
On his way to and from Grantley Green, Basil had noticed a pretty stucco house standing in paddock and orchard, which seemed exactly suited to harbour the Connollies. He had asked Barbara about it, but she could tell him nothing. Basil was getting lax and confident now in his methods, and no longer bothered himself with much research before choosing his victims. The stucco house was marked down and next day he packed the Connollies into the car and drove over to do his business.
It was ten in the morning but he found the proprietor at breakfast. He did not appear to be quite the type that
