“Two gentlemen in a car, mum, and they say, could they look at the house and garden?”
“What a bore!” cried Mrs. Driffield, but with astonishing alacrity. “Isn’t it funny I should have been speaking just now about the people who want to see the house? I never have a moment’s peace.”
“Well, why don’t you say you’re sorry you can’t see them?” said Roy, with what I thought a certain cattiness.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Edward wouldn’t have liked me to.” She looked at the cards. “I haven’t got my glasses on me.”
She handed them to me, and on one I read “Henry Beard MacDougal, University of Virginia”; and in pencil was written: “Assistant professor in English Literature.” The other was “Jean-Paul Underhill” and there was at the bottom an address in New York.
“Americans,” said Mrs. Driffield. “Say I shall be very pleased if they’ll come in.”
Presently the maid ushered the strangers in. They were both tall young men and broad-shouldered, with heavy, clean-shaven, swarthy faces, and handsome eyes; they both wore horn-rimmed spectacles and they both had thick black hair combed straight back from their foreheads. They both wore English suits that were evidently brand new; they were both slightly embarrassed, but verbose and extremely civil. They explained that they were making a literary tour of England and, being admirers of Edward Driffield, had taken the liberty of stopping off on their way to Rye to visit Henry James’s house in the hope that they would be permitted to see a spot sanctified by so many associations. The reference to Rye did not go down very well with Mrs. Driffield.
“I believe they have some very good links there,” she said.
She introduced the Americans to Roy and me. I was filled with admiration for the way in which Roy rose to the occasion. It appeared that he had lectured before the University of Virginia and had stayed with a distinguished member of the faculty. It had been an unforgettable experience. He did not know whether he had been more impressed by the lavish hospitality with which those charming Virginians had entertained him or by their intelligent interest in art and literature. He asked how So-and-So was, and So-and-So; he had made lifelong friends there, and it looked as though everyone he had met was good and kind and clever. Soon the young professor was telling Roy how much he liked his books, and Roy was modestly telling him what in this one and the other his aim had been and how conscious he was that he had come far short of achieving it. Mrs. Driffield listened with smiling sympathy, but I had a feeling that her smile was growing a trifle strained. It may be that Roy had too, for he suddenly broke off.
“But you don’t want me to bore you with my stuff,” he said in his loud hearty way. “I’m only here because Mrs. Driffield has entrusted to me the great honour of writing Edward Driffield’s Life.”
This of course interested the visitors very much.
“It’s some job, believe me,” said Roy, playfully American. “Fortunately I have the assistance of Mrs. Driffield, who was not only a perfect wife, but an admirable amanuensis and secretary; the materials she has placed at my disposal are so amazingly full that really little remains for me to do but take advantage of her industry and her—her affectionate zeal.”
Mrs. Driffield looked down demurely at the carpet and the two young Americans turned on her their large dark eyes in which you could read their sympathy, their interest, and their respect. After a little more conversation—partly literary but also about golf, for the visitors admitted that they hoped to get a round or two at Rye, and here again Roy was on the spot, for he told them to look out for such and such a bunker and when they came to London hoped they would play with him at Sunningdale; after this, I say, Mrs. Driffield got up and offered to show them Edward’s study and bedroom, and of course the garden. Roy rose to his feet, evidently bent on accompanying them, but Mrs. Driffield gave him a little smile; it was pleasant but firm.
“Don’t you bother to come, Roy,” she said. “I’ll take them round. You stay here and talk to Mr. Ashenden.”
“Oh, all right. Of course.”
The strangers bade us farewell and Roy and I settled down again in the chintz armchairs.
“Jolly room this is,” said Roy.
“Very.”
“Amy had to work hard to get it. You know the old man bought this house two or three years before they were married. She tried to make him sell it, but he wouldn’t. He was very obstinate in some ways. You see, it belonged to a certain Miss Wolfe, whose bailiff his father was, and he said that when he
