He exclaimed feebly, deprived of spirit by her warmth, “What things do you mean?”
They were so clear to her own mind; the hopes she had cherished as a girl, the lofty ambitions of youth, their bare memory irradiated and refreshed her, though she was approaching the middle years and long ago had left youth behind her. Nevertheless, she flushed with pure joy to contemplate them; experiencing a stimulus she had never known during the careful colourless years of her wifehood.
Richard astounded her, breaking into her thoughts, by a sudden return to his most dignified and unapproachable displeasure.
“It is a disadvantage to any man in public life to have a wife who is entirely uninterested in his aims.”
“It’s not precisely that, Richard, but they don’t seem worth all your work and energy. It seems to me rather humiliating for you to spend so much attention on them.”
Richard watched her steadily, one hand fidgeting with a book he had picked up from the table. His eyes had a peculiar trick of appearing much lighter when he was angry. Now they were almost colourless.
“I understand. Nevertheless, contemptible as it must appear to you, I do not propose to relinquish my position so lightly. I had hoped at one time that your brothers might see fit to use their influence, but unfortunately they have forfeited their opportunities. They have to be regarded as something less than a forlorn hope.”
“Quite forlorn,” Laura agreed. “Alastair wouldn’t consider promotion ought to go by favour, even before he changed his political views. And Philip would be just as unhelpful.”
She moved to the dressing-table, took up a silver-backed brush, and smoothed a strand of red hair that had become disarranged. A sense of amazement filled her. Was this all that portentous dignity concealed, this childish battle for place? Was his armour truly nothing but silver paper and cardboard? She saw life as a landscape stretching into the distance, with no enclosing walls or comfortable house with doors that locked to keep the pilgrim within; and Richard strove to make it secure, narrow, and exclusive. The absurd passion of his last words hung upon the air, deafening her ears and deadening her heart. He was, after all, in earnest. One should feel compassion, not this sense of chill disgust. To him it did matter so much.
4. Olivia
I
Eustace Moore, who married Olivia Gray, was frequently described as a bounder, but he bounded with so admirable a discretion that this peculiarity on his part was nearly always overlooked. He was a man with a vast acquaintance. When he entered any public building—a restaurant, lecture-hall, or bar—he was instantly hailed by several voices. He was an energetic and, in some ways, a mischievous man; his conceit of himself was so great it overleaped all obstacles in his mind before he had approached a problem, so that these obstacles seldom existed by the time he set to work. His imagination was his weakest point. A man given to wild gambles himself, he had neither understanding nor patience to spare for those who feared such risks. He had his finger in a great many pies and possessed an enviable treasury of commercial tips. He sometimes boasted that he could gauge any man’s financial standing at the end of half an hour’s conversation. In appearance he was short, neat-waisted, clean-shaved, dark, and well dressed. He had very small, beautiful hands and feet and brown eyes, and a smile of great charm and subtlety. He paid a great deal of attention to his finger-nails and hands. He had married Olivia because she represented the world in which he was not at that time altogether at ease. He was under no illusions as to her family, that he considered unintelligent, short-sighted, and snobbish. They possessed, however, an inherent elegance and suavity that in himself had to be acquired. The type of woman in London Society whom he preferred, refused to consider him in marriage, and he had realised quite early that his only chance was to marry quietly a girl of breeding and, if possible, a little fortune, who would do him credit and attract people by her bearing as his hostess. His circle was not enthusiastic as to his choice, Olivia seeming aloof and cold. But that other circle that he proposed to enter contained better judges. Eustace did himself quite definite good by his marriage. After that event, Olivia for some years saw very little of her relations, Eustace being convinced that they would all try to borrow money off him. Olivia speedily worked up a reputation for being smart and amusing; she contributed bright Society chat to some of the larger weeklies, with very shiny paper and a great many photographs of the right people. These generally took the form of letters beginning “Cherry sweetest,” or “My darling Babs,” and were described as “devastating.” Eustace was proud of her ability to attract the right kind of attention and to make money on her own account. It seemed to him unusual to combine these qualities with the appearance and manners of a lady and a placid tolerance of his own uxoriousness, that was pronounced even in public, when he could not refrain from touching her shoulder or arm, or allowing his body by apparent accident to come into contact with hers.
As to Olivia’s relations, Eustace thought them a poor lot. Richard was suspicious, stand-offish, and proud without any reason that Eustace could discover. Miles he affected to dislike—did, indeed, dislike, with the petty, uncomfortable jealousy of the man who senses his own inferiority. Their relations on the surface were cordial, but they met seldom. Miles, Eustace would remind himself, was younger, poorer, nothing to look at, had no ambitions worth mentioning; he had married a younger daughter and had obtained no dowry with her; Ruth Amery could not even give him sons. There were two little girls who never came down to King’s Poplars, and Ruth was not a Society figure, being short and dimpled
