‘Though what it is you can see in her I don’t know.’
‘Go on saying that. Say that she’s awful and hideous and stupid and unkind, you don’t know what a lot of good it’s doing me.’
‘All right, I will, only don’t cry if you can help it, there’s a sweetie. I expect you’ll get over her quite soon, you know; it’s happened before, hasn’t it? Still, of course, it must be hellish for you while it lasts, having to look at that penny bun face every day. The poor girl’s certainly no oil painting.’
‘Oh, I am glad to hear you talk like this, Amabelle; it’s cheering me up no end. It makes things much less awful if you honestly think her plain, because perhaps one day I shall see her as you do, and then everything will be all right again.’
‘Well, just you bring her round here some time and I’ll tell you all about her.’
‘Ha, ha, she’d bore you to death, she’s the most cracking bore I’ve ever met.’
‘Are you going to marry her?’
‘No such luck. I’m not rich enough. Her mother’s out to catch a guardsman for her.’ To Paul the word ‘guardsman’ was synonymous with millionaire. ‘Besides, it’s not as though she cared for me in the least. She only got engaged to me because she thinks I have some clever friends she would like to meet. She’s a terrific intellectual snob among other things.’
‘You seem to have her pretty well sized up, don’t you?’
‘Oh, she’s driving me mad.’
‘Now, don’t cry, or I shall stop talking about you. Do you intend to start another book soon?’
‘What’s the good of that? I only get laughed at; I don’t care to be made such a fool of again, I can tell you. It has hurt me terribly – terribly. Look at these.’ He drew the press cuttings from his pocket. ‘They mock at me, they make fun of my sacred feelings. It’s not very nice for me, is it?’
‘Poor sweet.’
‘It’s the most appalling disappointment, I must say. All my life I have wanted to write; I love it. Now I don’t know what I am going to do. It is hell – hell!’
‘I should keep off fiction, if I were you. People don’t understand tragedy in these days, only sentiment; and quite frankly your book was a bit melodramatic, darling, wasn’t it? Now, why don’t you try your hand at something else, some different form?’
‘Yes, perhaps I should.’
‘Biography, for instance. I’ve always been told that it’s very good mental exercise, and it can be quite profitable into the bargain.’
‘What a nice woman you are, Amabelle,’ said Paul, cheering up visibly. ‘Thank goodness I came to see you. I never thought of biography, but of course that’s the very thing for me. Yes, but whose? May I be your Boswell, darling?’
‘I believe books are still censored in England, old boy, and I don’t much fancy the idea of being burnt by the public hangman, thanks awfully, just the same. No, you choose carefully some really sympathetic character – and talking of sympathetic characters, here’s darling Sally. How’s the mother?’
‘Very well considering,’ said Sally, who looked enchanting in a seal-skin tippet. ‘Pleased to see you, Paul – not so pleased to see Walter at the backgammon table again. What did you promise me, darling?’
‘It’s all right, darling. I’m throwing doubles the whole time today. There, you see, I’ve got old Jerome on the run again. Backgammoned, in fact. That’s a sixteen game,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and putting an arm round Sally’s waist. ‘Anyhow, my sweet, it’s hardly fair to grumble, considering that that most peculiar garment you’ve got on now was bought entirely out of my winnings last week, eh? So go away, or you’ll spoil the luck.’
‘How’s my goddaughter, Sally?’ asked Paul.
‘Good heavens, are you going to be its godfather too?’ said Amabelle. ‘Whatever induced you to ask him of all people, Sally? And how many godparents does that make?’
‘Altogether about twelve, I think,’ said Sally vaguely. ‘We thought it would be silly not to ask Paul, as he is literally the only religious maniac we know.’
‘I’m not a maniac,’ said Paul angrily.
‘Aren’t you, darling? I think you are, though.’
‘Just because I happen to be a Buchanite –’
‘What’s that you’re saying?’ said Amabelle; ‘I never thought an old highbrow like you would admit to such a thing. I read them in trains myself when there’s nobody looking.’
‘I was not,’ said Paul with dignity, ‘referring to the novels of John Buchan, if that is what you mean. Of course I don’t read them. Buchanism is the name given to a religious sect founded by Mrs Elspeth Buchan, a Scotch and vastly superior prototype of Mrs Eddy and Mrs Besant. In fact, she started that fashion for the founding of religions by untitled married ladies which has since become almost universal. The last of her followers died in 1848, and I have constituted myself head of the N.B.M. (New Buchanite Movement). As her teachings died with her followers I am able to make up the rules as I go along, which is pleasant. When’s the christening, Sally?’
‘Well, if the poor little sweet is still with us then we thought next Tuesday week (suit you?), but she’s most awfully ill today, she keeps on making the sort of noises Walter does after a night out, you know.’
‘D’you think she’s likely to live or not?’ said Paul. ‘Because if there’s any doubt perhaps I could use your telephone, Amabelle, to call up the jewellers and see if I’m in time to stop them engraving that mug. It’s such an expensive sort, and I don’t want it spoilt for nothing, I must say.’
‘I believe she’s expected to pull through. But tell me, Paul, how could you have it engraved, we haven’t even decided what her name’s going to be ourselves. I want Henrietta Maria and Walter wants Dora Mildred, and we don’t seem to
