There were one or two young men, too, who scraped acquaintance with the queer party. One of them dropped out when he discovered that Mrs. Marble did not possess much jewellery, and, in fact, did not care for jewellery, but the others stayed on. They danced with Winnie in the evenings, or took her “just for the rag” to the local theatre. They were nearly annoyed when they found that Mrs. Marble took it for granted that she was to accompany them; but there was no thought in her mind save just that. She could not picture a state of affairs in which anyone would sooner be alone with her daughter than have her present as well. But the men, young and old alike, found that there was one sure way of enjoying Winnie’s society unadulterated; that was to settle Mrs. Marble comfortably on the pier listening to the band, in a deckchair, and then take Winnie for a walk round. Mrs. Marble was quite pleased when she found how attentive the men all were to her, and to what pains they went to see that she was quite comfortable and had all she wanted. It was a pleasant change from seventeen years odd of married life with William Marble. And it was astonishing how often Winnie replied to Mrs. Marble’s question: “What would you like to do this morning?” (or this afternoon), with the ready response, “Oh, let’s go on to the pier and listen to the band, Mother.”
But amid all this enjoyment John was not enjoying himself. There was no place in the Grand Pavilion Hotel where he could sit and read in comfort, and the beach and the promenade were too crowded to permit such a thing either. He always had the Giant Twin, of course, but he did not always want to be out on it. Motorcycling, even on the finest example of the finest make of motorcycle in the world, begins to pall a little after three weeks’ enforced indulgence, and there came a time when John was frankly bored. He was bored with hotel meals, with hotel friends, and with hotel public rooms. Music at his meals ceased to have any attraction for him at all. The men who sought Winnie’s society looked upon him as an unmitigated nuisance, and were not too careful about concealing their opinion. And Winnie held the same opinion and did not try to conceal it at all. He could not even discuss motor-bicycles with anyone, in that he never met anyone who had ever owned such a thing.
John was bored, utterly and absolutely. After a fortnight’s stay he hinted as much to his mother, but hints were not very effective in his mother’s case. Three days later he tried again, with equal unsuccess. When he had endured three whole weeks he took the bit between his teeth and announced his intention of going home.
“But, my dear, why?” asked Mrs. Marble.
John did his best to explain, but he felt from the start it was hopeless. The intuition proved correct, for Mrs. Marble had no sympathy at all with boredom, never being bored herself.
“I don’t think father will like it if you go home,” said Mrs. Marble. “He’s spent an awful lot on this holiday for you, and you ought to show that you appreciate it.”
“But there’s nothing to do,” expostulated John.
“Why, there’s lots and lots to do, dear. You can listen to the band, or you can go out on the motorbike, or—or—oh, there’s lots to do. A great active boy like you ought to find things to do as easily as anything.”
“A great active boy can’t listen to a band all day and all night,” said John, “even if I was a boy, and even if I liked listening to bands, which I don’t, very much. Hang it, I can’t get hold of any decent books to read, and when I do I can’t find anywhere to read them.”
“Don’t argue with him, Mother,” cut in Winnie. “He’s only finding fault.”
“Finding fault” was in Mrs. Marble’s eyes a sort of vice to which the male sex was peculiarly prone at inconvenient moments. She suffered on account of it on occasions when Mr. Marble’s temper was not all that it should have been. Winnie seized the advantage conferred upon her by this dexterous tactical thrust.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t go home, if you ask me,” she said. “He’d be company for father, and it’s only for a week, when all’s said and done.”
Her arguments were not particular happy, for Mrs. Marble remembered with a slight shudder the time when she had flung herself between her son and her husband. And she would be positively unhappy, whenever she remembered to be, at the thought of two helpless males alone in a house which cost her so much pains to run. But Winnie had her own reasons for wishing John away, reasons not unconnected with walks upon the pier and with visits to local cinematograph theatres.
“I should let him go,” said Winnie. “Then he can collect a few of the mouldy old books he wants to read. He’ll soon get fed up with being at home, and then he can come down here again. It’ll only be for a day or two. He won’t stand cooking his own breakfast longer than that. Then he’ll be able to tell you how father’s getting on.”
It was a wily move. Mrs. Marble, in the intervals between being intimidated by waiters and chambermaids and enjoying the luxury they represented, was occasionally conscience-stricken about her deserted husband. She heard from him very little—only one or two straggling scrawls that told her nothing. More would have meant too much trouble to
