A voice rose above the saxophone at the table to the left of mine. It came from a heavy, drooping man with the eyes of a schoolboy, the smile of a genius, the gestures of a conqueror, and the face of a bully. He said: “There are two things in England that not even God could afford to be truthful about: Himself and the Navy.” With the man of destiny was the most beautiful woman in Ireland (Ulster) and a dark woman with a high bust and flashing eye, who spoke Cockney with an American accent. Her father was a lord. She said: “I am growing to detest London. There is nowhere to go and nothing to do when you get there.” The most beautiful woman in Ireland (Ulster) had hair as black as a raven’s wing and two aquamarines for eyes, while the symmetry of her features appalled the epithet. She said: “I took my little Juno out to tea with Fay Avalon today and she was so naughty on the handsome parquet floor, the mother’s darling!”
Then things happened. Gerald happened. Gerald and Aphrodite. … Venice, Iris, Guy de Travest, Hugo Cypress, Napier, Colonel Duck, Gerald … if only one had a cinema for a moment! And there was also my Lady Pynte, with whom I should have been dancing. Where Mrs. Ammon went there also went Cornelia Pynte, and where Lady Pynte went there also went Angela Ammon. They were fine hearty women. And since Hilary was dancing with Mrs. Ammon I ought instantly to have begged the honour of taking the floor with Lady Pynte. There she sat, across the room, alone, a fine hearty woman. But, then, one goes to a nightclub to think, to be alone, to be comfortable, to eat a haddock. Lady Pynte thought dancing Good Exercise, and she was taller than me, too. A fine woman. Once, as Hilary toiled by with Mrs. Ammon, he whispered fiercely over her shoulder: “Why don’t you dance with the old trout?” But I drowned discourtesy to Lady Pynte in wine, for it was a “late night” at the Loyalty, which meant that you could drink wine until they took it from you. Lady Pynte was renowned as one of the five best women riders to hounds in the country. It was said that the foxes in the Whaddon Chase country ceased laughing when anyone said “Pynte!” near them. But Lady Pynte also had her politics, and she headed Movements; while Angela Ammon was more of a literary turn. Lady Pynte liked young men to Do; Mrs. Ammon to Dare. Lady Pynte liked young men to be Healthy and Normal; Mrs. Ammon preferred them to be Original. Lady Pynte liked Boys to be Boys; Mrs. Ammon didn’t mind if they were girls so long as they were Original. Lady Pynte insisted on Working for the Welfare of the People at Large and Not Just Our Own Little Class, she played bridge with a bantering tongue and a Borgia heart, she maintained that the best place at which to buy shoes was Fortnum & Mason’s, and if she saw you innocently taking the air of a sunny morning she would say: “You look not at all well, my good young man. Why don’t you take some Clean, Healthy exercise? You ought to be Riding.” That was why one maintained a defensive alliance with one’s haddock rather than do the manly thing and dance with Lady Pynte. She would say one ought to be riding, and for four years I had hidden from Lady Pynte the fact that I did not know how to ride. I simply did not dare to confess to Lady Pynte that I could not ride. I had already tried to pave the way to that denouement by confessing that I came from the lower classes, but she did not appear to think that any class could be so Low as that. She would show one round her stables, and one felt an awful fool standing there in the cold being expected to be intelligent about the various horses, whereas one could only mutter, “Ah, good horse!” or “Oh, there’s a fine horse!” until one day I remembered what Peter Page, the critic, had once told me, that whenever he was shown a horse by a horse-lover he would instantly say “What withers!” and thus create a sound and manly impression as a horse-fancier. But when I came out impressively with “What withers!” I thought that Lady Pynte looked at me suspiciously, and Hilary, who was also fancying horses with us, told me later that it wasn’t done to look a lady straight in the eye and say “What withers!” Horses make life complicated, that is what it is.
Hugo Cypress, dancing by with his wife Shirley, called out: “Ho, there! Seen the evening-paper? Friend of yours. …”
“What?” I said. “Hugo. …” But what on earth was this about the evening-paper? I was agitated—suddenly, I was very agitated indeed. There is something quite beastly about evening-papers, beastly and naked. …
Astorias stayed his men, and Hilary came back to the table. Gloomily he looked at the angel that was frozen to its horse. And he looked worried.
“Hilary, what’s this I heard Hugo murmuring about the evening-paper?”
“Gerald,” said Hilary. “Hm. …”
“But what, Hilary? Not serious, surely?”
“Oh, not serious,” Hilary grunted. “Not serious. Hm. Just a nasty silly mess, I think. Didn’t catch what. Hm. …”
I realised then that I had known all the time. That curious, hopeless grinning. … But, good Lord, what sort of a mess? Hilary didn’t know. “Something in the evening-paper,” he said. Hilary looked hurt, worried, and I had that jumpy feeling that I must do something at once. But what sort of a mess? A drunkard’s row? What? Hilary didn’t know, and I was just about to ask the waiter if he could find me an evening-paper when
