‘Oh, cads!’ said Bobby, and his eyes quite literally filled with tears. It was always a very real sorrow to him if he missed a party of any kind. He felt cross and resentful.
Amabelle saw this at once; she knew her little Bobby. ‘Darling, you can’t imagine how much we all longed for you to come,’ she said quickly, ‘but I simply couldn’t think of taking you, for your own sake, my sweet. You must remember that it never pays to risk quarrelling with one’s bread and butter, and you’ve got to keep in your mamma’s good books, especially if you’re not to be packed off to Sandhurst, eh? So don’t look quite so sad, precious.’
‘Oh, well, I see your point, I suppose. Actually, of course, it could have been worked quite safely; still, never mind, it’s all over now. Was it lovely?’
‘It was lovely,’ said Sally, sitting up with an obvious effort, and powdering her nose. ‘Simply grand. I got off with a miner from Lancashire, who had just absconded with the local slate club money and was having the time of his life in London on the proceeds. He was a great wit; he said the lady miners are minarets – he made that sort of joke. He was that sort of man, you see. Heavenly. And he said “I know where I’ve met you before, with Lady Alistair Grayson in her villa at Antibes,” and I said “You can’t have met me there because I don’t know the old trout,” and he said, “Oh, nor do I, of course. But I always read about her parties in the papers.” That is the sort of man he was – very O.K. I had a great romance with him. And who Walter got off with no one knows because he vanished half-way through the party, you see, and hasn’t come back yet. He must be having a gorgeous time.’
Sally rose uncertainly to her feet and staggered upstairs.
‘Poor darling Sally,’ said Amabelle. ‘I must say she does behave well on these occasions. I admire her for it a good deal. It’s really too naughty of Walter not to ring her up or something; he must know by now how much she always worries.’
‘There’s your groom,’ said Bobby, who hated hearing about other people’s troubles, and had wandered over to the window, ‘galloping Paul’s horse round and round that field; he is a divine man. Fielden, our groom, told Mother that he’d never known me to take so much interest in riding, or exercise the horses so thoroughly before, as I do these hols.; and of course the old girl puts it down entirely to Paul’s wonderful influence. Tell us some more about that party you so kindly asked me to.’
‘It was just like any other party of that sort. It had every element of discomfort and boredom and yet for no particular reason that one could see, it was divine fun. It’s not often one finds English people really gay, is it? And in the Albert Hall of all places, in that odour of Sunday afternoon concerts, it is quite astonishing.’
‘Who was there?’
‘Everybody in the world. The improper duchess for one.’
‘With Héloïse?’
‘I didn’t see her, but she may have been too well disguised. Jane and Albert were there, just back from Paris.’
‘Were they, now?’ said Paul with interest. ‘And how are they? Happy?’
‘Wretched, I believe. Did they expect anything else? What a silly marriage that was, to be sure.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Paul gloomily, ‘it really is rather disillusioning. When one’s friends marry for money they are wretched, when they marry for love it is worse. What is the proper thing to marry for, I should like to know?’
‘The trouble is,’ said Amabelle, looking at Philadelphia whom she thought surprisingly beautiful, ‘that people seem to expect happiness in life. I can’t imagine why; but they do. They are unhappy before they marry, and they imagine to themselves that the reason of their unhappiness will be removed when they are married. When it isn’t they blame the other person, which is clearly absurd. I believe that is what generally starts the trouble.’
‘I expect that’s quite right,’ said Paul, sighing.
‘In any case,’ Amabelle went on, ‘the older I get the more I think it is fatal to marry for love. The mere fact of being in love with somebody is a very good reason for not marrying them, in my opinion. It brings much more unhappiness than anything else. Look at Sally. Every time Walter leaves the house for half an hour she thinks he will be run over by a bus and on an occasion like this it’s impossible to guess what she must be suffering. Now, supposing she weren’t in love with him, she’d be feeling ghastly now, like I am; but she wouldn’t be frightfully unhappy as well, and on ordinary occasions she could enjoy her life peacefully. What does Bobby think about it?’
Bobby said, ‘Just what I told you, see?’ to Paul, and to Amabelle, ‘I still think it’s lousy of you not to have taken me last night. I shan’t get over it for ages and ages. As for marriage, I fully intend to marry you, darling, when I’m a bit older and have had my fling, you know. We’ll live where it’s hot, shall we? and adopt four black children and be as happy as the day is long.’
‘You are a fool, Bobby. I’m very glad you’ve brought your beautiful sister here at last,’ said Amabelle. Philadelphia blushed, she was unused to being thought beautiful. ‘She must come again soon, when we’re not all so tired and sad. Where’s Michael, by the way? Still at Compton Bobbin?’
‘Oh, yes, rather,’ said Bobby. ‘He’s gone out to look for a barrow to excavate, I believe.’
‘Gosh! how
