“All right, Nigel, we’ll see both.”
So the two of them went to London by the early morning train. “Let’s surprise her,” said Nigel, but Cedric telephoned first, wryly remembering the story of the pedantic adulterer ? “My dear, it is I who am surprised; you are astounded.”
“I am coming round to see Mrs. Lyne.”
“She isn’t very well this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is she able to see people?”
“Yes, I think so, sir. I’ll ask…yes, madam will be very pleased to see you and Master Nigel.”
They had not met for three years, since they had discussed the question of divorce. Cedric understood exactly what Angela had felt about that; it was curious, he reflected, how some people were shy of divorce because of their love of society; they did not want there to be any occasion when their presence might be an embarrassment, they wanted to keep their tickets for the Ascot enclosure. With Angela reluctance came from precisely the opposite motives; she could not brook any intrusion of her privacy; she did not want to answer questions in court or allow the daily paper a single item of information about herself. “It’s not as though you wanted to marry anyone else, Cedric.”
“You don’t think the present arrangement makes me look rather foolish?”
“Cedric, what’s come over you? You used not to talk like that.”
So he had given way and that year had spanned the stream with a bridge in the Chinese Taste, taken direct from Batty Langley.
In the five minutes of waiting before Grainger took him into Angela’s bedroom, he studied David Lennox’s grisailles with distaste.
“Are they old, Daddy?”
“No, Nigel, they’re not old.”
“They’re awfully feeble.”
“They are.” (Regency…This was the age of Waterloo and highwaymen and duelling and slavery and revivalist preaching and Nelson having his arm off with no anesthetic but rum, and Botany Bay ? and this is what they make of it.)
“Well, I prefer the pictures at home, even if they are old. Is that Mummy?”
“Yes.”
“Is that old?”
“Older than you, Nigel.”
Cedric turned from the portrait of Angela. What a nuisance John had been about the sittings! It was her father who had insisted on their going to him.
“Is it finished?”
“Yes. It was very hard to make the man finish it, though.”
“It hardly looks finished now, does it, Daddy? It’s all sploshy.”
Then Grainger opened the door. “Come in, Cedric,” Angela called from her bed.
Angela was wearing dark glasses. Her make-up things lay on the quilt before her, with which she had been hastily doing her face. Nigel might have asked if it was finished; it was sploshy, like the John portrait.
“I had no idea you were ill,” said Cedric stiffly.
“I’m not really. Nigel, haven’t you got a kiss for Mummy?”
“Why are you wearing those glasses?”
“My eyes are tired, darling.”
“Tired of what?”
“Cedric,” said Angela petulantly, “for God’s sake don’t let him be a bore. Go with Miss Grainger into the next room, darling.”
“Oh, all right,” said Nigel. “Don’t be long, Daddy.”
“You and he seem to be buddies these days.”
“Yes, it’s the uniform.”
“Funny your being in the Army again.”
“I’m off tonight, abroad.”
“France?”
“I don’t think so. I mustn’t tell about it. That’s why I came to see you.”
“About not talking about not going to France?” said Angela in something of her old teasing way.
Cedric began to talk about the house; he hoped Angela would keep on to it, even if anything happened to him; he thought he saw some glimmerings of taste in the boy; he might grow to appreciate it later. Angela was inattentive and answered absently.
“I’m afraid I’m tiring you.”
