‘But it’s such an extraordinary idea. Whatever will you do in the country for two months, at that time of year too? I’m afraid you’ll be bored and wretched.’
‘I don’t know. After all, hundreds of people live in the country, I believe, and presumably they must occupy themselves somehow. Besides, it’s patriotic not to go abroad now. I’ve heard you say so over and over again.’
‘Abroad, yes. But there’s nothing to stop you from staying in London, which would surely be more pleasant than to traipse down to Gloucestershire in this weather.’
‘You’re not very encouraging, are you?’
‘Where is this house, anyway?’
‘It’s called Mulberrie Farm, and it’s in the Cotswolds, near Woodford – incidentally, it’s quite near Compton Bobbin, so I shall expect to have little Bobby trotting round most days, and you know how I dote on that child. Apparently Mulberrie Farm itself is very old and lovely. I’m awfully excited about it.’
‘Now why, apart from the obvious attractions of young Bobby (horrid little brat) do you choose the Cotswolds of all places? Anything more dreary in winter can hardly be conceived. I dare say that Devonshire or Dorset would have been quite pleasant, but the Cotswolds – !’
‘Oh, it wasn’t on Bobby’s account in the least, much as I shall love having him so near. I didn’t even discover that he lived there until after I had signed the lease. No, I read a book about the Cotswolds once when I was waiting for a train at Oban, I don’t know why, but I bought it off a book-stall. I suppose I wanted change for a pound note. Anyhow, I read it, and apparently the Cotswolds are naked, grey hills with lush valleys and Saxon churches and Elizabethan farm houses and lonely wolds, which sound so entrancing, lonely wolds, don’t you agree? In fact, if I like it as much as I know I shall, I might easily buy a house there and settle down among the lonely wolds for ever.’
Jerome snorted.
‘Not cross, are you darling?’
‘No, of course I’m not. But, frankly, I don’t think you’ll enjoy yourself much.’
‘Then I can come straight back here, can’t I?’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘There’s one other reason why I don’t want to be in London at present,’ said Amabelle slowly. ‘Michael is coming back for good at Christmas, and I can’t, I can’t, face all that business over again. There are limits to one’s powers of endurance, you know.’
‘You managed him quite all right before,’ said Jerome drily.
‘I’m three years older now and more easily bored by that sort of thing. Besides, Michael makes such appalling scenes and I really don’t feel quite equal to them any longer.’
‘Who says you’ll have to feel equal to them? May I remind you, my dear, that three years at Michael’s age is a lifetime, and I should think it more than doubtful that he will still be in love with you when he gets back.’
‘Oh, well, if you’re merely going to be disagreeable –’
At this moment Paul and Walter were announced.
3
Amabelle got up to shake hands with them and began moving tables and chairs into different positions.
‘Darlings, I couldn’t be more pleased to see you.’
‘Let me help with that.’
‘Months and months since I saw Paul last.’
‘If you’d just say where you want it put.’
‘All right, I can manage. There that’s perfect. Now Jerome and Walter can settle down to a game of backgammon, which I know they’re longing to do, while I have a little chat with Paul. Come over here to the fire, darling, and tell me a whole lot of things I’m dying to know about. First of all, was your book really meant to be funny when you wrote it? – don’t answer if you’d rather not; secondly, why did you cut me dead in the Ritz today; and thirdly, who was that very repellent female you were lunching with?’
‘What a clever woman you are, Amabelle,’ said Paul admiringly. ‘It’s perfectly terrifying how nothing ever escapes those tiny yellow eyes.’
‘Large green in point of fact.’
‘There’s nobody like you – luckily. The book was intended as a horrible tragedy, the female was my fiancée, Marcella Bracket, and the reason I cut you was that if I hadn’t she would certainly have insisted on being introduced and I know just how she would bore you.’
‘Oh, I see. She’s a bore as well as being hideous, is she? I must say, she looks it all right.’
‘I think she’s maddeningly beautiful.’
‘She’s certainly not that, poor girl. I can see that we shall have to get you out of this.’
‘I wish you could, but unfortunately I happen to be in love.’
‘That won’t last,’ said Amabelle soothingly. ‘It never does with you. As for the book, it’s no good writing about the upper classes if you hope to be taken seriously. You must have noticed that by now? Station masters, my dear, station masters.’
‘I know, I know. Of course, I have noticed. But you see my trouble is that I loathe station masters, like hell I do, and lighthouse keepers, too, and women with harelips and miners and men on barges and people in circuses; I hate them all equally. And I can’t write dialect. But you must admit I had a pawnbroker in my book.’
‘Yes, and such a pawnbroker – those Gibbon periods! Pawnbrokers, my dear, don’t often talk like that in real life, at least, I can’t imagine that they do. No wonder he was taken for a comic figure. What between your book and your young woman you seem to be in a pretty mess, poor darling.’
‘I am indeed,’ said Paul gloomily. He was enjoying this conversation
