The house itself was one of Amabelle’s most valuable assets, and its decoration, calculated as it was to suit the taste of the semi-intelligent people who were her friends, showed a knowledge of human nature as rare as it was profound. What could be more subtle, for instance, than the instinct which had prompted her to hang on the walls of her drawing-room three paintings, all by Douanier Rousseau? Her guests, on coming into this room, were put at their ease by the presence of pictures, and ‘modern’ pictures at that, which they could recognize at first sight. Faced by the works of Seurat, of Matisse, even of Renoir, who knows but that they might hesitate, the name of the artist not rising immediately to their lips? But at the sight of those fantastic foliages, those mouthing monkeys, there could arise no doubt; even the most uncultured could murmur: ‘What gorgeous Rousseaus you have here. I always think it so wonderful that they were painted by a common customs official – abroad, of course.’ And buoyed up by a feeling of intellectual adequacy, they would thereafter really enjoy themselves.
The rest of the house was just as cleverly arranged. Everything in it belonged to some category and could be labelled, there was nothing that could shock or startle. People knew without any effort what they ought to say about each picture, each article of furniture in turn. To the Victorian domes of wool flowers in the hall they cried, ‘How decorative they are, and isn’t it quaint how these things are coming back into fashion? I picked up such a pretty one myself at Brighton, and gave it to Sonia for a wedding present.’ To the black glass bath those privileged to see it would say, ‘Isn’t that just too modern and amusing for words, but aren’t you frightened the hot water might crack it, darling?’ And to the Italian chairs and sideboards, the exquisite patina of whose years had been pickled off in deference to the modern taste for naked wood, ‘How fascinating, now do tell me where you get all your lovely things?’
Amabelle’s own personal charm operated in much the same way. She was clever enough only to open up, to put, as it were, on view, those portions of her mentality to which whomsoever she happened to be with could easily respond. All her life she had had before her one ambition, to be a success in the world of culture and fashion, and to this end alone her considerable talents and energy had been directed; from a child she had played to the gallery quite consciously and without much shame. If the fulfilment of this ambition brought with it the smallest degree of disappointment, she managed very successfully to conceal the fact from all but herself – herself and possibly one other, Jerome Field.
Jerome Field was Amabelle’s official friend, so to speak, appointed by her to that position, and for life. Their friendship had already lasted over twenty years, and had been a most satisfactory one on both sides; for while Jerome was necessary to Amabelle’s comfort and happiness, her only confidant, the one person who thoroughly understood her character and yet never questioned anything that she might do, she, supplying much of brightness and domesticity to an otherwise lonely existence, was no less indispensable to him. The fact that there had never been the smallest hint of love in their relationship (he being frankly in love with his business affairs and she with social life, and neither of them capable of any other real or lasting passion), lent it a peculiar flavour for which she at least was grateful.
On the afternoon of Paul’s sad vigil in the Tate, Jerome Field took tea, as was his almost invariable custom, in the Douanier Rousseau drawing-room.
‘The worst part of getting old in these days,’ he said, ‘seems to be that those of one’s friends who are neither dead, dying nor bankrupt, are in prison. It is really most depressing, one never knows when one’s own turn may not be coming. I said to my directors only today, “Now mind, if I go to the Old Bailey I don’t intend to stand in the dock alone. I asked all of you to be directors on the distinct understanding that you know as well as I do how to add, subtract and even multiply, and I count on you to be equally responsible with me for any slips that are made.” That shook ’em, I can tell you, especially that fat old fool, Leamington Spa; he practically asked me how long we could expect to be at large.’
‘But I do hope,’ said Amabelle with some anxiety, ‘that you’re not in immediate danger of arrest, are you? Do try and put it off till after Christmas anyhow.’
‘Why, do you need me for something special at Christmas time?’
‘Not more than usual, darling. I always need you as you know perfectly well. The thing is that I hope you’ll come and stay with me for Christmas – I’ve taken a house in the country then.’
‘Not in England?’
‘Yes, in Gloucestershire, to be exact.’
‘Good gracious, Amabelle!’
Jerome Field was one of those rare and satisfactory people who always play the exact part that would be expected of them. At this particular juncture it was obviously indicated that he should register a slightly offended amazement. He did so.
‘The country in England, my dear. What a curious notion. Whatever could have made you think of such a thing? Do you say you have actually taken a house?’
Amabelle nodded.
‘Have you seen it?’
She shook her head.
‘How long have you taken it for, may one ask?’
‘Two months. I signed the agreement today.’
‘Without even seeing the house?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t be bothered to go all that
