“Oh yes. She’ll see the wife of Mallory of Everest.”
George immediately recognized the attractive woman who was chatting to Keedick on the far side of the room. She was not someone he was likely to forget.
“Congratulations, Mr. Mallory, most stimulating,” said the president of Harvard. “Most stimulating. May I also say that I hope you pull it off next time?”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Lowell,” said George, not bothering to repeat once again that he wouldn’t be going on the next expedition. “And allow me to thank you for organizing this reception.”
“My pleasure,” said the president. “I’m only sorry that Prohibition prevents me from offering you anything other than orange juice or a Coca-Cola.”
“An orange juice will be just fine, thank you.”
“I know that many of the students are keen to ask you questions, Mr. Mallory,” said the president, “so I won’t monopolize you.” He walked off to join the woman speaking to Keedick.
Within moments, George was surrounded by eager young faces that brought back memories of his days at Cambridge.
“Have you still got all your toes, sir?” asked a young man who was peering down at George’s feet.
“They were all there when I checked in the bath this morning,” said George, laughing. “But my friend Morshead lost two fingers and a toe, and poor Captain Norton had half his right ear trimmed off after he’d set a new altitude record.”
A voice from behind him asked, “Are there any mountains in America, sir, that you might consider a worthy challenge?”
“Most certainly,” said George. “I can assure you that Mount McKinley presents as great a challenge as any to be found in the Himalaya, and there are several peaks in the Yosemite Valley that would test the skills of the most experienced climber. If it’s rock climbing that interests you, you need look no further than Utah or Colorado, if you hope to prove your worth.”
“Something has always puzzled me, Mr. Mallory,” said an intense-looking young man. “Why do you bother?”
The president, who had just returned to George’s side, coughed and tried to hide his embarrassment.
“There’s a simple answer to that,” said George. “Because it’s there.”
“But-”
“I apologize for interrupting you, Mallory,” said Mr. Lowell, “but I know that Mrs. Harrington is keen to meet you. Her late husband was an alumnus of this university, and indeed a generous benefactor.”
George smiled as he shook hands with the young woman who had asked him about the expedition’s finances in New York and had since attended every one of his lectures. She didn’t look much older than some of the undergraduates, and George assumed that she must have been at least the third Mrs. Harrington, unless the cardboard king, as Keedick kept describing him, married very late in life.
“I confess, Estelle,” said the President, “I had no idea you were interested in mountaineering.”
“Who could fail to be entranced by Mr. Mallory’s charisma?”-a word George had never heard used in that way before, and would have to look up in his dictionary to find out if in fact it had a second meaning. “And of course, we all hope,” she gushed, “that he will be the first person to stand on top of his mountain, and then he can come back and tell us all about it.”
George smiled and gave her a slight bow. “As I explained in New York, Mrs. Harrington, I shall not-”
“Is it true,” continued Mrs. Harrington, who clearly wasn’t in the habit of being interrupted, “that this evening’s lecture was your last before your return to England?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied George. “I take the train back to New York tomorrow afternoon, and then sail for Southampton the following morning.”
“Well, if you’re going to be in New York, Mr. Mallory, perhaps you might care to join me for a drink tomorrow evening.”
“That’s extremely kind of you, Mrs. Harrington, but sadly-”
“You see, my late husband was a very generous benefactor, and I feel sure he would have wanted me to make a substantial donation to your cause.”
“Substantial?” repeated George.
“I was thinking about”-she paused-“ten thousand dollars.”
It was sometime before George said, “But I won’t get back to New York until around seven tomorrow evening, Mrs. Harrington.”
“Then I’ll send a car to pick you up from your hotel at eight. And, George, do call me Estelle.”
After breakfast had been cleared and nanny had taken the children off for their morning walk, Ruth went through to the drawing room. She sat down in her favorite chair by the window and opened George’s latest letter.
Ruth smiled as she put the letter back in the envelope and placed it in the top drawer of her desk, along with all the letters George had written to her over the years. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Her train to London wasn’t due to leave Godalming for another hour, but Ruth felt she ought to set out for the station fairly soon, as this was an appointment for which she mustn’t be late.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
GEORGE KNOCKED ON the front door of a brownstone on West 64th Street a few minutes before nine o’clock. A butler dressed in a long black tailcoat and white tie answered the door.
“Good evening, sir. Mrs. Harrington is expecting you.”
George was shown into the drawing room, where he found Mrs. Harrington standing by the mantelpiece below a Bonnard oil of a nude woman stepping out of a bath. His hostess was wearing a bright red silk dress that didn’t quite cover her knees. There was no sign of an engagement or wedding ring, although she was wearing a necklace of diamonds with a matching bracelet.
“Thank you, Dawkins,” said Mrs. Harrington, “that will be all.” Before the butler had reached the door she added, “And I won’t be requiring you again this evening.”
