Mytten, my young assistant, would visit them instead, as I was indisposed. Mytten was at present still in Bordeaux, where it was dangerous to send him since he prolonged his visits so unconscionably, conducting some negotiations with a small house with which we had newly begun to do some business. Mytten was a Roman Catholic, a sybarite and an ass, but he was loyal and a decent judge of wine, and went down splendidly with my more snobbish clientele. I could trust him with the visiting, though not of course with the tasting, and I noted that my next essential engagement was to taste hock, of which we still handled a little, on 30 January. Of course I always politely consulted Mytten and very occasionally listened to his advice on what to buy, but a director of a small wine firm tends to become an omnipotent and jealous deity, and it was on my palate alone that the firm of Lynch-Gibbon depended; and as I had no paternal feelings towards Mytten and did not believe that I could train him to be a second me, the little firm would doubtless perish with me, and the particular piece of reality represented by the discerning taste which my father had so carefully trained and fostered in his son would vanish away for ever.
Until the truant Mytten's return my two excellent secretaries, Miss Hernshaw and Miss Seelhaft, could get on perfectly well on their own. I prized these girls exceedingly as they could write accurate and even witty business letters in French and German, and by now knew the business very well indeed, though, quaintly, they had no understanding of wine and praised anything that was offered to them. They had been with me for some years now and I had been very worried in case one or other of them should take it into her head to get married, until the day when I realized, through some imperceptible but cumulative gathering of impressions, that they were a happy and well-suited Lesbian couple.
Today I had, with each of them separately, gone through the painful business of telling them about my divorce: I was made aware that they already knew. So gleefully fast does bad news travel. They stood now by the door waiting without visible impatience to see the last of me. Their faces and attitudes expressed their respective modes of sympathy: tall fair Miss Hernshaw, long vainly courted by the imperceptive Myt-ten, swaying moist-eyed and ready to hold my hand, short dark Miss Seelhaft, frowning with concern as she polished her spectacles, darting me glances of brisk commiseration. I left them at last to the debris of the Christmas orders and the joys of each other's company and drove my car to Pelham Crescent.
Antonia was wearing a brown cashmere pullover and a string of pearls, neither of which I had seen before. She had never used to buy so much as a handkerchief without consulting me. I noticed too, half relieved, that she was in a state of restless irritation and in no mood to ply me with her tenderness. She jumped up when she saw me and said, 'Really, I think she might have waited a bit before dismantling the house!'
'Who?'
'Honor Klein.'
I recalled this lady's existence. 'I suppose she's taking her own stuff away?'
'Darling, shut the door,' said Antonia. 'I feel haunted. I suppose she has a right to her own things, but really, when she appeared here this morning it was like being hit by a tornado. Did you see all the junk piled up in the hall?'
'Appeared this morning? Isn't she staying here?'
'No. That was another thing, and after I'd spent ages getting her room ready. She decided last night she wanted to stay in a hotel in Bloomsbury to be near the British Museum or something, and poor Anderson had to take her away in a taxi and he's not at all well, and he took ages getting back in the fog.'
'How is Palmer?'
'His temperature's still up. It was ninety-nine this morning. I do think she's inconsiderate. All the same, I like her.'
I laughed at the determined way Antonia said this. 'You have to. She's Palmer's sister. I confess, I don't feel myself obliged in this respect!'
'About the furniture, darling,' said Antonia, 'may we do it tomorrow afternoon? Anderson and I are just off to Marlow. We thought we'd stay at the Compleat Angler, just for the night. It's such a nice warm hotel. Poor Anderson is so overtired, I thought the little change would do him good, and we both hate seeing Honor mauling the house. I'm terribly sorry not to be able to ask you to lunch, but we're having it early in rather a rush and leaving immediately after.'
I had introduced Antonia to the Compleat Angler. It had been one of our haunts in the early days of our marriage. 'I couldn't anyway,' I said. 'I'm just leaving town myself. But I'll be back early tomorrow. See you at Hereford Square any time after three.'
I told this lie instinctively, as a rejoinder to Antonia's air of somewhat patronizing solicitude; and I had the satisfaction of seeing her inhibit her impulse to ask me where I was going. She had, after all, surrendered certain rights. The thread was not broken, but without our notice and without our will the gulf had inevitably grown wider. She sighed; and I took my leave before she could discover the words with which to draw me gently once more towards her.
I closed the drawing-room door upon Antonia and almost fell over Honor Klein, who was half carrying half dragging a large box of books across the hall.
I said, 'May I help you?' and together we hauled the box into the big front room which Palmer always called the Library, although it contained only one small bookcase. The room was in disorder now, piled up with tea chests containing books, papers, and photographs. A number of pictures were stacked against the wall, including the series of Japanese prints from the study. I noticed too, half hidden by a heap of letters, a framed photograph of what was obviously Palmer as a boy of sixteen. In the dining-room opposite I saw through the door the table for lunch and an open bottle of Lynch-Gibbon claret. Only two places were laid.
'Thank you,' said Honor Klein. 'Now would you mind helping me stack these boxes on top of each other? I shall need the space.'
When we had finished this and I wished to take my leave, but could think of no suitable formula, I bowed rather awkwardly and was about to withdraw when she said, 'Yesterday you asked me what I thought of my brother's exploit. May I ask you what you think of it?'
This took me greatly by surprise and I hesitated for words. I was at once aware that I must be very careful what I said to Honor Klein.
She went on, 'Do you think they are doing the right thing?'
'Do you mean morally?»
'No, not morally,' she said almost with scorn. 'I mean for their life.' She contrived to give the word a metaphysical ring.
I said, 'Yes, I do think they are doing the right thing.' There was something hideously improper in discussing Antonia's business with this woman. Yet I found suddenly that I wanted to.
'Do you mind if I close the door?» she said. She stood with her back to it staring at me with a concentrated calculating expression. She was wearing a dark green coat and skirt which had once had some pretension to smartness and she looked rather less dumpy than she had seemed at the station. Her blunt laced shoes had been polished since yesterday. Her short straight oily hair, a lustrous black, sat like a cropped wig about her pale rather waxen Jewish face. Her narrow eyes were like two black chips.
She said, 'I wonder if you realize how much your soft behaviour dismays them?'
I was surprised again. 'You are wrong,' I said. I added, 'In any case I am powerless. If I choose to be civilized it is my own affair.' I glared back at her. All the same, there was something refreshing, even exhilarating, even liberating, after so much of the tender and the polite, after Antonia and Palmer's masterly 'wrapping', about this direct talk.
'Civilized!' she said it again with scorn. 'As you must know perfectly well, you could get your wife back if you wanted her even now. I don't say that you should have beaten her and kicked my brother; but there was no need to press them so into each other's arms. They are both persons with a great capacity for self-deception. They have enchanted themselves into a belief in this match. But they are both crammed with misgivings. They want to be let off the final decision. They look to you for help. Can you not see that?'
I was amazed. I said, 'No, frankly I can't see it. I can best help them by being gentle and I propose to go on being gentle. I am after all in a position to know the truth about both of them.' I spoke firmly, but I was very upset by what she had said, and confused, and unaware whether I ought not to be offended. I took a step forward to indicate that I wished to go. But she stood her ground, throwing her head back against the door and looking up at me.
'Truth has been lost long ago in this situation,' she said. 'In such matters you cannot have both truth and
