'Is your wife pretty?' asked Bannard. 'Really pretty? With this and that?' He made a couple of gestures, quite conventional though not aforetime seen in drawing rooms.
'Of course she is,' said Maybury. 'What do you think?'
'Does she really turn you on? Make you lose control of yourself?'
'Naturally,' said Maybury. He tried to smile, to show he had a sense of humour which could help him to cope with tasteless questions.
Bannard now not merely sat on Maybury's bed, but pushed his frame against Maybury's legs, which there was not much room to withdraw, owing to the tightness of the blanket, as Bannard sat on it.
'Tell us about it,' said Bannard. 'Tell us exactly what it's like to be a married man. Has it changed your whole life? Transformed everything?'
'Not exactly. In any case, I married years ago.'
'So now there is someone else. I understand.'
'No, actually there is not.'
'Love's old sweet song still sings to you?'
'If you like to put it like that, yes. I love my wife. Besides she's ill. And we have a son. There's him to consider too.'
'How old is your son?'
'Nearly sixteen.'
'What colour are his hair and eyes?'
'Really, I'm not sure. No particular colour. He's not a baby, you know.'
'Are his hands still soft?'
'I shouldn't think so.'
'Do you love your son, then?'
'In his own way, yes, of course.'
'I should love him, were he mine, and my wife too.' It seemed to Maybury that Bannard said it with real sentiment. What was more, he looked at least twice as sad as when Maybury had first seen him: twice as old, and twice as sad. It was all ludicrous, and Maybury at last felt really tired, despite the lump of Bannard looming over him, and looking different.
'Time's up for me,' said Maybury. 'I'm sorry. Do you mind if we go to sleep again?'
Bannard rose at once to his feet, turned his back on Maybury's corner, and went to his bed without a word, thus causing further embarrassment.
It was again left to Maybury to turn out the light, and to shove his way back to bed through the blackness.
Bannard had left more than a waft of the perfume behind him; which perhaps helped Maybury to sleep once more almost immediately, despite all things.
Could the absurd conversation with Bannard have been a dream? Certainly what happened next was a dream: for there was Angela in her nightdress with her hands on her poor head, crying out 'Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!' Maybury could not but comply, and in Angela's place, there was the boy, Vincent, with early morning tea for him. Perforce the light was on once more: but that was not a matter to be gone into.
'Good morning, Mr Maybury.'
'Good morning, Vincent.'
Bannard already had his tea.
Each of them had a pot, a cup, jugs of milk and hot water, and a plate of bread and butter, all set on a tray. There were eight large triangular slices each.
'No sugar,' cried out Bannard genially. 'Sugar kills appetite.'
Perfect rubbish, Maybury reflected; and squinted across at Bannard, recollecting his last rubbishy conversation. By the light of morning, even if it were but the same electric light, Bannard looked much more himself, fluffy red aureole and all. He looked quite rested. He munched away at his bread and butter. Maybury thought it best to go through the motions of following suit. From over there Bannard could hardly see the details.
'Race you to the bathroom, old man,' Bannard cried out.
'Please go first,' responded Maybury soberly. As he had no means of conveying the bread and butter off the premises, he hoped, with the aid of the towel, to conceal it in his skimpy pyjamas jacket, and push it down the water closet. Even Bannard would probably not attempt to throw his arms round him and so uncover the offence.
Down in the lounge, there they all were, with Falkner presiding indefinably but genially. Wan though authentic sunlight trickled in from the outer world, but Maybury observed that the front door was still bolted and chained. It was the first thing he looked for. Universal expectation was detectable: of breakfast, Maybury assumed. Bannard, at all times shrimpish, was simply lost in the throng. Cecile he could not see, but he made a point of not looking very hard. In any case, several of the people looked new, or at least different. Possibly it was a further example of the phenomenon Maybury had encountered with Bannard.
Falkner crossed to him at once: the recalcitrant but still privileged outsider. 'I can promise you a good breakfast, Mr Maybury,' he said confidentially. 'Lentils. Fresh fish. Rump steak. Apple pie made by ourselves, with lots and lots of cream.'
'I mustn't stay for it,' said Maybury. 'I simply mustn't. I have my living to earn. I must go at once.'
He was quite prepared to walk a couple of miles; indeed, all set for it. The automobile organisation, which had given him the route from which he should never have diverged, could recover his car. They had done it for him before, several times.
A faint shadow passed over Falkner's face, but he merely said in a low voice, 'If you really insist, Mr Maybury —.'
'I'm afraid I have to,' said Maybury.
'Then I'll have a word with you in a moment.'
None of the others seemed to concern themselves. Soon they all filed off, talking quietly among themselves, or, in many cases, saying nothing.
'Mr Maybury,' said Falkner, 'you can respect a confidence?'
'Yes,' said Maybury steadily.
'There was an incident here last night. A death. We do not talk about such things. Our guests do not expect it.'
'I am sorry,' said Maybury.
'Such things still upset me,' said Falkner. 'None the less I must not think about that. My immediate task is to dispose of the body. While the guests are preoccupied. To spare them all knowledge, all pain.'
'How is that to be done?' enquired Maybury.
'In the usual manner, Mr Maybury. The hearse is drawing up outside the door even as we speak. Where you are concerned, the point is this. If you wish for what in other circumstances I could call a lift, I could arrange for you to join the vehicle. It is travelling quite a distance. We find that best.' Falkner was progressively unfastening the front door. 'It seems the best solution, don't you think, Mr Maybury? At least it is the best I can offer. Though you will not be able to thank Mr Bannard, of course.'
A coffin was already coming down the stairs, borne on the shoulders of four men in black, with Vincent, in his white jacket, coming first, in order to leave no doubt of the way and to prevent any loss of time.
'I agree,' said Maybury. 'I accept. Perhaps you would let me know my bill for dinner?'
'I shall waive that too, Mr Maybury,' replied Falkner, 'in the present circumstances. We have a duty to hasten. We have others to think of. I shall simply say how glad we have all been to have you with us.' He held out his hand. 'Good-bye, Mr Maybury.'
Maybury was compelled to travel with the coffin itself, because there simply was not room for him on the front seat, where a director of the firm, a corpulent man, had to be accommodated with the driver. The nearness of death compelled a respectful silence among the company in the rear compartment, especially when a living stranger was in the midst; and Maybury alighted unobtrusively when a bus stop was reached. One of the undertaker's men said that he should not have to wait long.
