On another occasion the prison-doctor, trotting on his daily round of inspection, paused at Paul’s cell, examined his name on the card hanging inside his door, looked hard at him and said, “You need a tonic.” He trotted on without more ado, but next day a huge medicine-bottle was placed in Paul’s cell. “You’re to take two glasses with each meal,” said the warder, “and I hopes you like it.” Paul could not quite decide whether the warder’s tone was friendly or not, but he liked the medicine, for it was brown sherry.
On another occasion great indignation was aroused in the cell next door to him, whose occupant—an aged burglar—was inadvertently given Paul’s ration of caviar. He was speedily appeased by the substitution for it of an unusually large lump of cold bacon, but not before the warder in charge had suffered considerable alarm at the possibility of a complaint to the Governor.
“I’m not one to make a fuss usually,” said the old burglar, “but I will be treated fair. Why, you only had to look at the stuff they give me to see it was bad, let alone taste it. And on bacon night, too! You take my tip,” he said to Paul as they found themselves alone in the quarries one day, “and keep your eyes open. You’re a new one, and they might easily try and put a thing like that over on you. Don’t eat it, that’s putting you in the wrong. Keep it and show it to the Governor. They ain’t got no right to try on a thing like that, and they knows it.”
Presently a letter came from Margot. It was not a long one.
Darling Paul (it said),
It is so difficult writing to you because, you know, I never can write letters, and it’s so particularly hard with you because the policemen read it and cross it all out if they don’t like it, and I can’t really think of anything they will like. Peter and I are back at King’s Thursday. It was divine at Corfu, except for an English doctor who was a bore and would call so often. Do you know, I don’t really like this house terribly, and I’m having it redone. Do you mind? Peter has become an earl—did you know?—and is rather sweet about it, and very self-conscious, which you wouldn’t expect, really, would you, knowing Peter? I’m going to come and see you some time—may I?—when I can get away, but Bobby P.’s death has made such a lot of things to see to. I do hope you’re getting enough food and books and things, or will they cross that out? Love, Margot. I was cut by Lady Circumference, my dear, at Newmarket, a real point-blank Tranby Croft cut. Poor Maltravers says if I’m not careful I shall find myself socially ostracized. Don’t you think that will be marvellous? I may be wrong, but, d’you know, I rather believe poor little Alastair Trumpington’s going to fall in love with me. What shall I do?
Eventually Margot came herself.
It was the first time they had met since the morning in June when she had sent him off to rescue her distressed protégées in Marseilles. The meeting took place in a small room set aside for visitors. Margot sat at one end of the table, Paul at the other, with a warder between them.
“I must ask you both to put your hands on the table in front of you,” said the warder.
“Like Up Jenkins,” said Margot faintly, laying her exquisitely manicured hands with the gloves beside her bag. Paul for the first time noticed how coarse and ill-kept his hands had become. For a moment neither spoke.
“Do I look awful?” Paul said at last. “I haven’t seen a looking-glass for some time.”
“Well, perhaps just a little mal soigné, darling. Don’t they let you shave at all?”
“No discussion of the prison regime is permitted. Prisoners are allowed to make a plain statement of their state of health, but must on no account make complaints or comments upon their general condition.”
“Oh dear!” said Margot; “this is going to be very difficult. What are we to say to each other? I’m almost sorry I came. You are glad I came, aren’t you?”
“Don’t mind me, mum, if you wants to talk personal,” said the warder kindly. “I only has to stop conspiracy. Nothing I hears ever goes any further, and I hears a good deal, I can tell you. They carry on awful, some of the women, what with crying and fainting and hysterics generally. Why, one of them,” he said with relish, “had an epileptic fit not long ago.”
“I think it’s more than likely I shall have a fit,” said Margot. “I’ve never felt so shy in my life. Paul, do say something, please.”
“How’s Alastair?” said Paul.
“Rather sweet, really. He’s always at King’s Thursday now. I like him.”
Another pause.
“Do you know,” said Margot, “it’s an odd thing, but I do believe that after all these years I’m beginning to be regarded as no longer a respectable woman. I told you when I wrote, didn’t I, that Lady Circumference cut me the other day? Of course she’s just a thoroughly bad-mannered old woman, but there have been a whole lot of things rather like that lately. Don’t you think it’s rather awful?”
“You won’t mind much, will you?” said Paul. “They’re awful old bores, anyway.”
“Yes, but I don’t like them dropping me. Of course, I don’t mind, really, but I think it’s a pity, particularly for Peter.
