Amabelle, as always, had her own way, and the upshot of her visit to Eton was that Bobby’s house-master, Maurice Pringle, wrote off to Lady Bobbin highly recommending one Paul Fisher as holiday tutor to her son, Roderick.
‘I am not actually acquainted with this young man, but I have received from mutual friends a most glowing account of his character and attainments, and I feel certain, from what I hear, that he is in every way qualified to fill your post. I understand that he is a particularly sportsmanlike young fellow, devoted to outdoor pursuits, and at the same time (which is important), a first-class coach. Should you wish to interview him, I shall be most happy to arrange this for you …’
Lady Bobbin, however, who was at that time busy hunting five days a week, did not wish to waste one of them by spending it in London, and engaged Mr Fisher by return of post with no mention of an interview. She merely remarked in her letter that he would be expected to ride, shoot and play golf with ‘the boy’, as well as to coach him in whatever subjects Mr Pringle might think advisable, and ended up by saying that Roderick would be hunting three days a week. Paul wondered with a shudder whether he would also be obliged to participate in this unnerving sport.
The five weeks which still remained before Christmas were unpleasantly strenuous ones for Paul. His mornings were spent clinging in a frenzy of fear to the backs of ancient hirelings in the Row, mild, drowsy animals which were in his eyes monsters of fire and speed, savagely awaiting an opportunity to hurl him to his doom. His afternoons, less fraught with actual danger than with the horror of an almost equally distressing boredom, alternated between a shooting school at Richmond and golf lessons in Putney. By the evening he could hardly either stand or see. He regarded himself, however, as a martyr in the cause of Art, and this sustained him. Marcella, piqued by a sudden cessation of his advances, was now seldom off the telephone, a state of things which would have seemed unbelievably blissful two or three weeks before. But, although he still fed her loyally at the Ritz every day, he was beginning, if the truth must be known, to find her beauty less maddening and her lack of intelligence more so than formerly.
5
Walter and Sally Monteath, accompanied by Miss Elspeth Paula Monteath, now an accredited member of the Church of England, and her nanny, travelled down to Gloucestershire by train a few days before Christmas. They had temporarily solved their always-pressing money troubles by letting their flat for a few weeks, during which time they intended to live entirely at Mrs Fortescue’s expense, and by selling the ancient motor car. This had from the first proved to be more in the nature of a luxury than an economy, and latterly it had cost them endless money and bother owing to what Walter was pleased to call ‘Sally’s incurable habit of ploughing her way through human flesh’. Walter, while showing a greater respect for life where pedestrians were concerned, was all too much addicted to tearing mudguards, headlights and other gadgets from onrushing vehicles. In fact, the sale of the car was regarded by all their friends as an undisguised blessing, and they themselves were highly relieved to see the last of it.
‘Isn’t this too perfect,’ said Sally as she settled herself into the corner seat of a first-class carriage. ‘Now, just run along and buy me all the weekly papers, will you, darling. Oh, you have already. Thanks so much. Do you realize,’ she added, opening the Tatler and throwing a copy of the Sketch over to Walter, ‘that from this moment we literally shan’t have to put hand to pocket for six whole weeks. It’s a beautiful thought. Such a comfort too that Amabelle’s taken a small house, so that there’ll only be her and Jerome for Christmas presents. Yes, I got them on Monday, hankies. Quite nice and very cheap.’
‘I must say I rather hope they won’t retaliate with diamond links and things. D’you remember the Liberty boxes?’ said Walter.
Two years before, Walter and Sally, then newly married, had spent Christmas with a millionaire and his wife. On Christmas Day Sally had duly presented them with chintz handkerchief and tie boxes from Liberty, which she had chosen with some care as being suitable gifts. Slight embarrassment had been felt even by the ordinarily shameless Monteaths when they were given in return enamel waistcoat buttons, gold cigarette and vanity cases, and a handbag with a real diamond clasp.
‘Oh, I’m past minding about that sort of thing now,’ said Sally cheerfully. ‘I’m only so thankful Elspeth Paula did well at her christening, the angel. We ought to get quite a lot for that pearl necklace, and I suppose the mugs will fetch something. I say, here’s the most ghastly photo of Paul and Marcella at a night club. Do look. Aren’t they exactly like deep-sea monsters! What a girl!’
They were met at Woodford station by the beige Rolls-Royce, and on the doorstep of Mulberrie Farm by Amabelle herself, exquisitely turned out in that type of garment which is considered suitable for le sport by dressmakers of the rue de la Paix.
‘Thank God you’ve come at least,’ she said in her gloomiest voice. ‘Darling Sally, looking so lovely, the angel. Oh, Paula! Isn’t she sweet? Well, come in. You won’t like it, but I can only hope you’ll be amused by it, that’s all.’
‘My dear Amabelle,’ cried Walter in tones of horror as he followed her into the hall, ‘what a house!’
‘Yes, you don’t have to tell me that; I’ve been here now for a week, kindly remember. And do you know that from what the agents said I honestly thought it was going to be really
