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  “Yes, I know,” he said, rather lamely.

  Mrs. Howard looked at him searchingly. The excitement which had made him behave so oddly at dinner was certainly not so acute, but he still looked as if he were walking on air and seeing something over people’s heads. Thoroughly exalted and romantic, she thought. And perhaps very upsetting to Aurea. She longed to ask exactly what had been said or looked, but how difficult it was to ask a young man pointblank if he had been making love to your daughter. So obviously it was his affair and Aurea’s, not hers. But if Aurea was going to suffer, she would commit any rudeness to save her. Perhaps this hadn’t gone very far, and Mr. Ensor seemed understanding enough not to take amiss what she wanted to say.

  “Mr. Ensor,” she began, “I don’t believe in interfering, but I am going to for once, and you must forgive me. You and Aurea seem to have fallen into friendship rather suddenly. Have you looked ahead at all?”

  There was a pause. Valentine was half annoyed, half remorseful. He fully realized the justice of Mrs. Howard’s question. Naturally he hadn’t looked ahead at all. One never did with these affairs, for if you did you would never begin them. But Aurea couldn’t be called an affair, that would be insulting. One might call her a revelation of beauty, an answer to every question in life, heart’s delight, beloved child; but never an affair, Valentine went hot as he remembered how foolishly he had said to her that they must go through with it whatever happened. That was not looking ahead with a vengeance. It would be the basest kind of treachery to try to lead so inexperienced a creature farther than she wanted to go. The kindest thing would have been never to have spoken. Now it was too late. One couldn’t draw back; that would only bewilder and grieve her, and perhaps make her feel that she had been too forward. What then could one do? Would it be possible to cherish this miracle of dearness for the short time that she remained in England, and yet leave her with no worse heartache than a few weeks would heal? One’s own heartache, of course, would never heal — although it had healed often before — but that would be of small account if she could escape unhurt. After all, if one had to suffer slow torture on her account, wasn’t she worth it?

  “No, I hadn’t,” he said at last, adding rather boyishly, “but I will now.”

  Mrs. Howard would have liked first to snort and then to groan. To snort on account of the extreme folly of his remark, and to groan because his last words showed her so plainly that it was too late. Exactly what had been said she would never know, but there had been some kind of explanation between them. She prayed that Valentine would be the one to suffer, if suffering there must be. After all, it was possible that Aurea was temporarily carried away, but wouldn’t take it all too seriously. If Valentine broke his heart, there would be, according to Fanny, plenty of charmers to mend it. But if Aurea loved too blindly, what hope was there for her?

  “Mr. Ensor,” she said desperately, “I am going to undertake the very ungrateful task of giving you good advice. When you said that Aurea wasn’t grown-up, you said something very true. In spite of a husband and children, she is only a child herself in many ways. I don’t know if I ought to say what I am going to say, but I trust you. Aurea’s married life has not been a success. She adores her children, but that isn’t enough. Her holiday here has been bliss for us all, but she has rooted again in England very strongly, and the wrench of parting with us — even with her children to look forward to — is going to be almost unbearable. If anything else happens to make her more unhappy, it would almost kill her father and myself.”

  “I would rather kill myself than make her unhappy,” said Valentine.

  “That wouldn’t do much good; and it may be too late.”

  “What do you mean?” said he quickly.

  “My dear Mr. Ensor, I am not blind. You must forgive me for talking to you like this, but she is my only child, and mothers are notoriously fierce when roused. It is so difficult to talk about a subject like this without being either priggish or melodramatic. It isn’t that I want to inquire whether your intentions are honorable, because in the first place I think you haven’t got as far as having any intentions at all, and in the second place I believe you could love a person unselfishly. I want to ask you, even if you can’t stop caring for that child, to do your very best to keep things on such a footing that she won’t be made far more unhappy than she need be. If a woman has an empty place in her heart, and a man can fill it who has no right to, it can only mean intense misery for everyone concerned.”

  Valentine looked so wretched that she hastened to add: “Now I’ve finished, and if you can forgive me, you must.”

  Valentine was genuinely touched by her courage. “It’s rather fine of you,” he said slowly. “I’ll do my best, but you don’t know how difficult it will be.”

  Mrs. Howard looked relieved. “Perhaps I don’t,” she said. “Mothers have to be a nuisance sometimes, but I don’t want you to feel that I am meddling. I shan’t talk about it again.”

  “Then do you think, Mrs. Howard, it would be possible for me to take Aurea to this party tonight? If you and she go with Fanny and Arthur, I shan’t have a chance of talking to her again.”

  “I suppose,” said Mrs. Howard in a resigned voice, not without a hint of laughter, “that you are twisting me around your little finger, as Fanny said you would do.”

  ‘“Well,” said he apologetically, “I don’t want to be a bore, but Fanny really doesn’t leave much room for anyone else when she is about.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Mrs. Howard, torn between inclination and duty.

  “Thank you ever so much. It’s great fun to have anyone think me worth scolding.”

  “My dear young man,” said his hostess rather sharply, “I assure you that I certainly wouldn’t think you worth scolding, nor should I presume to do it, if it weren’t for Aurea. I like you, but I love her.”

  “I’m glad you like me,” said Valentine, quite genuinely. “It’s a lonely life sometimes.”

  “But I thought you had heaps of friends.”

  “So I have, and I go out a lot. But after weekends or parties there is always an empty bed-sitting-room waiting for one. It’s rather a bore.”

  Mrs. Howard felt the same pity which Aurea had felt about a frayed shirt cuff. The thought of a nice young man alone in lodgings does so melt female hearts, though it is probable that the young men are quite happy, and have deliberately chosen this independent form of life, rather than live at home and have their parents fussing. Besides, what a delightful form of independence, with none of the drawbacks. If you want to go away, you simply shout down the kitchen stairs, “Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I don’t know when I’ll be back — Monday perhaps,” and you slam the front door. Whereas in your parents’ comfortable home they want to know what meal you will be back to because of cook, and may even ask where you are going and what the telephone number is in case anyone wants you, which they certainly won’t and you wouldn’t want them if they did. Intolerable petty tyranny! Not that Valentine had a family to live with, consisting as it did of a very disapproving sister who inspected factories and had heaps of women friends. He was guiltily conscious that he was again asking for sympathy on false pretenses.

  A loud noise was now heard outside the door. It sounded like Fanny. Valentine got up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to be sentimental. And I’ll really do my best.”

  Fanny and Arthur came in; Fanny worked up and heated about something, Arthur evidently under a cloud.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Howard,” said Fanny. “Do look at Arthur in a black tie, and I’ve told him it’s a white-tie party till I’m black in the face, and all to what purpose? Hello, Val.”

  Arthur shook hands with his hostess, and then turned on his wife, pointing out that Valentine was in a black tie too.

  “Black ties are as worn this week, Fanny,” said Valentine. “Haven’t you read your fashion page?”

  “That’s only sour grapes, Val, because you aren’t invited to the part
y.”

  “But Arthur is,” said Valentine pleasantly. “My dear Arthur, you are going in unsuitable attire to an evening party at which, I am given to understand, a string quartet will perform. You will have to stand at the back of the room — your wife having, if I know her, immediately deserted you for some more congenial and sartorially correct companion — and you will be excessively bored by the music, and but little comforted by observing the mirth which your attire will excite among your wife’s friends. Don’t you wish you were coming with me to my club instead?”

  “I do,” said Arthur, with heartfelt emotion. “And what’s more I will. We can drop Mrs. Howard and the others at the Sinclairs’, and then go on to your club. I can come back and fetch you, Fanny.”

  “I dare say you can, Arthur,” said his wife truculently, “and arrive half an hour after the party is over and find me miserably outstaying my welcome. Or else I shall have to take a taxi home and sit on the doorstep as I haven’t a latchkey.”

  “Then take mine.”

  “And then have to get up and let you in at heaven knows what hour of the night. No thank you.”

  “Arthur,” said Valentine, endeavoring to keep the peace, “you really don’t seem to know what is good for you. Fanny, will you relent and take him to the party in his black tie?”

  “Isn’t that exactly what I am doing?” said the exasperated Fanny, whom Valentine could always rouse to frenzy. “Little credit as he does me, let it never be said that I left him out of any fun that was going.”

  “Fun! String quartets! Oh, God!” said Arthur bitterly.

  Fanny inquired for Aurea and was told she would be down soon. Mrs. Howard inquired about Fanny’s chickens. The news was not good. It appeared that someone, as yet unidentified, had bumped an incubator and broken a lamp, and a lot of eggs had died a chilly death before it was discovered and mended. Valentine’s conscience suddenly smote him. “I’m awfully sorry, Fanny,” he said penitently, “I did give it one bump when I was moving it for you, but I never thought it was broken.”

  “So it was you who broke it,” said Fanny. “It will be many a day, Valentine Ensor, before you are again invited to our well-appointed country residence.”

  “Can’t you do something with the eggs?” said Valentine hopefully. “Scramble them?”

  “For those who like dead chickens in their breakfast, the advice is excellent,” said Fanny coldly, and turned to Mrs. Howard. “I wish Aurea would hurry up,” she said. “Where can we drop you, Val?”

  Valentine cast an appealing glance at Mrs. Howard. “Oh, anywhere,” he said. “Don’t bother if the car is too full.”

  “I think we shall be rather a squash, Fanny,” said Mrs. Howard with great presence of mind, “and you know I don’t like being crowded. Suppose you and I go in a taxi, dear, and Arthur can take the others.”

  Arthur appeared to approve of the plan, which would have meant driving with Aurea. His approval immediately roused Fanny’s suspicions. She saw in it a treacherous intention of dropping Aurea at the party and going with Valentine to the club after all, and she announced the fact.

  “Very well, dear,” said Mrs. Howard, who at last saw a way of gaining her point, “then Mr. Ensor can take Aurea in a taxi and take it on wherever he wants to go, and I’ll come with you and Arthur.”

  Aurea had slipped in during the conversation, and smiled gratitude at her mother.

  Just as they were moving to go, Mr. Howard came in unexpectedly from his meeting, so they all delayed their departure. Mr. Howard was evidently in the initial stages of a heavy cold and only too ready to make much of it. He expressed gratification that Mr. Ensor was there, and promised himself much pleasure in continuing their talk when the others had gone. Valentine and Aurea exchanged agonized glances. Mrs. Howard, under the pretext of putting Aurea straight, whispered to her, “Are you very determined to go with Mr. Ensor, darling?” Aurea said she was.

  “You aren’t going to be hurt by this, are you?” said her mother anxiously. “I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Darling, don’t worry so much,” said her daughter, hugging her. “I am old enough to take care of myself.”

  “I wish I thought so,” said Mrs. Howard with a sigh. “But never mind.” And wondering to herself whether she had Sir Pandarus of Troy become, she set her wits to get her party disentangled. Ignoring Arthur’s suggestion that if Val wasn’t coming they could all go in his car, she addressed her dear but trying husband, and elicited from him the fact that he had been brought home by friends in an open motor. That meant, of course, that he was in for one of his Important Colds, which made more noise than anyone else’s and required special treatment, firm handling, and much sympathy. Mr. Howard confessed that it was foolish of him to have allowed it, and sneezed portentously in confirmation. Hot whisky toddy was recommended, refused, and finally accepted, in which Mr. Howard asked Valentine to join him. Words cannot express the despair of Valentine and Aurea as they saw him doomed to spend the evening with her father, whom he respected, but did not passionately love. Fanny put on her cloak, and was just taking Aurea off, when Mr. Howard sneezed again six times running in an unrestrained way that confounded the senses. Mrs. Howard, seizing her opportunity, ordered him to go straight to bed. Ordinarily he would have resisted, but so appalled was he by the magnitude of his own sneezes, that he was inclined to follow his wife’s advice. Mrs. Howard sent Aurea to order the materials for boiling toddy to be put in her father’s room, shepherded Fanny toward the door, and told Valentine to ring up a taxi when Aurea came down. He looked expressively thankful. Arthur nearly held everything up by offering to go and sit with Mr. Howard, but Fanny forcibly dissuaded him, remarking that there were people who were less than no good in a sick room, and that among them he held no mean place.

  “Good night, Val,” she shouted. “Tell your taxi to drive around by Streatham Common.”

  “Witty woman,” said Valentine politely, wondering how much she really meant it. Her voice died away on the stairs, and Valentine was left alone. He sat down and lit a cigarette. There was something silky and furry on the back of his chair; Aurea’s cloak which she had left there when she went to see about her father’s hot drink. A faint perfume in it brought her vividly to his mind. What was going to come of it all he asked himself. And there was absolutely no answer at all. If one isn’t a professional seducer what does come of things? Muddle, heartbreak, a life disoriented, memories deliberately kept alive, or deliberately forgotten. A sterile business. A sweet torment, a bitter delight, a fruitless blossom, a flame that sears and never warms. More than anything he longed to hold Aurea in his arms and see her eyes closing with excess of love. But that was not to be. She knew so little and he knew too much. Could he possibly use his knowledge to help her? Could he, so skilled in easier charmers, put aside his arts before her simplicity, and not let her know what she meant to him? She knew he loved her, but he thought she understood more with mind and sympathy than with bodily passion. It might still be possible not to let her hurt herself past cure. He buried his face in her silks and furs, loving and adoring the faint scent, so like the perfume of her hair.

  Aurea, having seen her father properly established, came back to the drawing room, and saw Valentine with her cloak to his lips. Unbearable pain and bliss. Not till he turned around did she make her presence known, when with as careless a voice as she could manage, she said that he had better ring up a taxi now. The number, she added, was written on the outside of the book.

  Valentine jumped to his feet. “I thought perhaps the taxi would like to wait a little before it was rung up,” he said.

  “Oh, no, I think not. You see, mother has been very noble tonight, and I don’t think it would be fair to be late at the party. She’ll want me.”

  “But I want you,” said Valentine with the fine selfishness of his sex.

  Aurea looked afraid. “Oh, please,” she said.

  “All right, then,” said Valentine and he rang up the taxi stand.


  “Now I know what your voice is like when you’re telephoning,” said Aurea in a slightly imbecile way.

  “Do you approve?”

  “Is that the voice you have for the charmers?”

  “No, I have a much better one for them.”

  “And for me?” said Aurea, which wasn’t at all playing the game.

  “I haven’t anything good enough for you,” said he, following her lead. But he wasn’t at all prepared for the voice in which Aurea said, “It will do,” nor for her look. Doing one’s best was not going to be at all an easy job.

  “Why do you make me feel like a driveling idiot?” he complained. “And now the taxi will be here in two minutes, and I have said nothing.”

  “Of course,” said Aurea, “if you liked to be extravagant and afford twopence more, it could wait a little.”

  “I adore you. Where would you like to dine on Thursday?”

  “Oh, anywhere, only not dressing, please. I shall feel more private like that.”

  “And shall we go to a play — or if you aren’t dressing, would you prefer a cinema?”

  “I’d love a cinema,” said Aurea. “Only let me remind you, Valentine, that cinemas have rather the same effect on gentlemen as taxis.”

  “Rather intoxicating?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I said I wouldn’t be intoxicated — truth and honor?”

  Aurea looked gravely at him and answered, “I would believe you. Oh, Valentine, isn’t it funny that we could have met before and not known each other? When I got home yesterday I looked up some old diaries, and I found a lot about that weekend with Arthur’s people, but nothing about you. I’m beginning to wonder if we ever really met at all. The moment I saw you at Waterside, I knew I had seen you before, but now I can’t remember anything that happened before Sunday morning.”

  “I remembered you the moment you spoke, though I hadn’t thought of you for all those years. I just remember someone who seemed very cool and far away.”