He looked at her dumbly. Even in the moment of his disillusion and rage he was compelled to realise her charm. Of course, he had met her at an unlucky moment. He had attended a stag dinner, at which an eminent and very outspoken novelist, whose books even Richard had read, had been the guest of the evening. As the hours drew on, under the influence of this gentleman and the wine, that was excellent, various guests became loquacious, and Richard was left with the shocked recognition that there was a delight to be had for money that he had not yet experienced. His tempered raptures with his bride were effectually quenched by the murmurs and admissions of some of those present; here, it seemed, was a secret well of joy from which other men drank, but not he.
His fidelity since marriage had been a matter of policy and of choice; he had no ethics to bind him, but he had not experienced any temptation to deceive Laura, and had, in fact, been too busy collecting scalps in other fields. The conversation, however, had fired his persistent love of self. Here were actually men less well off, less intelligent, less well connected, less brilliant in every way than himself, and he now perceived them to be richer than he. His view, he saw, had been a one-sided one; he had thought only of his work, and never of personal compensations. He went home in an unusually passionate and warm-blooded frame of mind, prepared to find his wife deficient in response. And circumstances favoured him. She had that afternoon had a most unsatisfactory interview with her lover, and was thoroughly disgusted with men, their evasions and securities. She turned away, therefore, when Richard came up to her and, taking her bare arm, began to stroke it possessively. Richard was rather pleased than otherwise at this exhibition of marital coldness. Three days later he met Greta Hazell, and within a fortnight he had taken a handsome little flat for her in Shaftesbury Avenue—not till later did he realise that its rent was three hundred and twenty pounds a year—and was buying her whatever her fancy of the moment prompted. After some months he realised that he was by no means her only visitor to the flat. Taxed with infidelity, she laughed impudently. Did he suppose she kept all her life for his pleasure? she asked. Richard was dumbfounded. Here was something he had bought defying him. It was intolerable. He determined at once to break off the liaison and never see the wretched creature again. Then she stated her terms. They were staggering; at first Richard could not believe her. She was—in execrable taste—amusing herself at his expense. But she speedily disillusioned him. He could do nothing. She had him on the hip, and it would be dangerous at this stage in his affairs to make an enemy of her. He was puzzled to know how she had learned so much of his precise position. It did not occur to him that a political rival might be among her visitors.
That, then, was the position this Christmas Eve. He had not yet met her demands, was not in a position to do so, but he was aware that he could not much longer defer payment. Somehow, setting his personal feelings aside, willy-nilly he must compel his father to help him. First he must pay off Greta—who had the name of never returning to plague a discarded or discarding lover—and then he must raise enough to keep the more pressing of his creditors at bay until he had achieved his goal. It would be a difficult task. Adrian Gray accorded his son only a grudging congratulation when he achieved his knighthood; he had not, in Richard’s opinion, altogether met the situation by saying, with an assumption of heartiness, “Just as you like, Richard, of course. A gentleman was good enough in our day. We didn’t go in for these fancy titles and letters after our names,” adding that, of course, gentleman had a more exclusive meaning a generation ago. Nevertheless, he would glean a certain pleasure out of saying, “My son, Lord So-and-So,” though it was questionable whether he would consider that prestige worth its price. His own affairs, as his son realised, were in a worse way than the man himself was aware. He, Richard, thought it improbable that Eustace had disclosed the true position, and he was particularly anxious to outwit his brother-in-law and obtain the first interview with his father. Once Eustace had made a clean breast of the position, it would be hopeless for any of them to ask for help. As for Brand—but Brand could be easily dismissed. Brand was a person of little importance and no influence, the kind of relative that even peers may own, though it is rash for mere knights to do so. Eustace’s speculations were a subject for consistent gossip in Richard’s own circle; people gave it as their opinion that that chap must come to grief pretty soon, and he’d be lucky if he kept out of gaol. Still, any racing man would have bet at high odds, say 50 to 1, on Eustace when it came to a match between him and Richard. The latter felt that his only chance was to be first in the field, and even that was a slender one.
Official business, however, delayed his plans, compelling him to remain in town until the evening of the 23rd, when it was too late to make the tortuous and inconvenient journey to King’s Poplars. He had made up his mind to travel by train, which would cost him nothing. To arrive, a suppliant, in the brilliant and much-advertised car that he possessed, would be to alienate Gray at once, and give Eustace an opportunity to point a derisive finger at him.
“Why doesn’t he put his car down if things
