“Words,” Elinor was thinking, “absurd melodramatic words.” But they moved her, as his boasting had moved her. “Please, Everard,” she said aloud, “no more.” She didn’t want to be moved. With an effort she held her glance steady while she looked into his face, into those bright and searching eyes. She essayed a laugh, she shook her head. “Because it’s impossible and you know it.”
“All I know,” he said slowly, “is that you’re afraid. Afraid of coming to life. Because you’ve been half dead all these years. You haven’t had a chance to come fully alive. And you know I can give it you. And you’re afraid, you’re afraid.”
“What nonsense!” she said. It was just ranting and melodrama.
“And perhaps you’re right, in a way,” he went on. “Being alive, really alive, isn’t entirely a joke. It’s dangerous. But by God,” he added, and the latent violence in his soft voice suddenly broke out into ringing actuality, “it’s exciting.”
“If you knew what a fright you gave me!” she said. “Shouting like that!” But it was not only a fright she had had. Her nerves and her very flesh still crept and quivered with the obscure and violent exultations which his voice had evoked in her. “It’s ridiculous,” she assured herself. But it was as though she had heard the voice directly with her body. The echoes of it seemed to vibrate at her very midriff. “Ridiculous,” she repeated. And then what was this love he talked about so thrillingly? Just an occasional brief violence in the intervals of business. He despised women, resented them because they wasted a man’s time and energy. She had often heard him say that he had no time for lovemaking. His advances were almost an insult—the propositions one makes to a woman of the streets.
“Do be reasonable, Everard,” she said.
Everard withdrew his hand from hers and, with a laugh, leaned back in his chair. “Very well,” he answered. “For today.”
“For every day.” She felt profoundly relieved. “Besides,” she added, quoting a phrase of his with a little ironical smile, “you’re not a member of the leisured class. You’ve got more important things to do than make love.”
Everard looked at her for a little in silence and his face was grave with a kind of lowering thoughtfulness. More important things to do? It was true, of course. He was angry with himself for wanting so much to have her. Angry with Elinor for keeping him unsatisfied. “Shall we talk about Shakespeare?” he asked sarcastically. “Or the musical glasses?”
The fare was three and six. Philip gave the driver two half crowns and climbed the steps of the club’s pillared portico pursued by the sound of thanks. He made a habit of over-tipping. It was not out of ostentation or because he had asked, or meant to ask, special services. (Indeed, few men could have demanded less of their servants than did Philip, could have been more patient to put up with bad service, and more willing to excuse remisses.) His over-tipping was the practical expression of a kind of remorseful and apologetic contempt. “My poor devil!” the superfluous gratuity seemed to imply, “I’m sorry to be your superior.” And perhaps also there was a shilling’s worth of apology for his very considerateness as an employer. For if he was unexacting in his demands, that was due as much to a dread and dislike of unnecessary human contacts as to consideration and kindness. From those who served him Philip demanded little, for the good reason that he wanted to have as little as possible to do with them. Their presence disturbed him. He did not like to have his privacy intruded upon by alien personalities. To be compelled to speak with them, to have to establish a direct contact—not of intelligence, but of wills, feelings, intuitions—with these intruders was always disagreeable to him. He avoided it as much as he could; and when contact was necessary, he did his best to dehumanize the relation. Philip’s generosity was in part a compensation for his inhuman kindness toward its recipient. It was conscience money.
The doors stood open; he entered. The hall was vast, dim, pillared, and cool. Sir Francis Chantrey’s allegorical marble group of Science and Virtue Subduing the Passions writhed with classical decorum in a niche on the stairs. He hung up his hat and went to the smoking room to look at the papers and await the arrival of his guests. Spandrell was the first to arrive.
“Tell me,” said Philip, as soon as the greetings were over and the vermouth ordered, “tell me quickly, before he comes—what about my absurd young brother-in-law? What’s happening with him and Lucy Tantamount?”
Spandrell shrugged his shoulders. “What does usually happen on these occasions? And in any case, is this the place and time to go into details?” He indicated the other occupants of the smoking room. A cabinet minister, two judges, and a bishop were within earshot.
Philip laughed. “But I only wanted to know how serious the affair really was, how long it’s likely to last …”
“Very serious as far as Walter’s concerned. As for duration—who knows? But Lucy’s going abroad very soon.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies! Ah, here you are!” It was Walter. “And there’s Illidge.” He waved his hand. The newcomers refused an aperitive. “Let’s come and eat at once then,” said Philip.
The dining room at Philip’s club was enormous. A double row of stucco Corinthian pillars supported a gilded ceiling. From the pale chocolate-brown walls the portraits of distinguished members, now deceased, glared down. Curtains of claret-coloured velvet were looped up at either side of the six windows, a claret-coloured carpet muffled the floor, and in their claret-coloured liveries the waiters darted about almost invisibly, like leaf-insects in a forest.
“I always like this room,” said
