Knight Without Armour

When he arrived at Surbiton station an hour later he declined a cab and enquired the way from a policeman. The walk through placid suburban roads gave him a chance to meditate, to savour in full the rich unusualness of the situation. He lit a cigarette, stopped a moment to watch some boys playing with a dog, kicked a few pieces of orange-peel into the gutter with an automatic instinct for tidiness; it was past seven before he found the house. It looked smaller than he had expected (for, after all, hadn’t she inherited the bulk of old Jergwin’s fortune?); just a detached suburban villa with sham gables and a pretentious curved pathway between the garden-gate and the porch. The maid who opened the door to his ring took his hat and coat and showed him into a drawing-room tastefully if rather depressingly furnished. He stood with his back to the fire-grate and continued to wonder what she would look like.

She came in with her daughter. She was rather thin and pale and eager, and the daughter was a large-limbed athletic-looking girl who moved about the room as if it were a hockey-pitch.

“Isn’t it romantic, Ainsley, for you to have come back after all these years?”

He found himself shaking hands and being presented to the girl. “I suppose it is,” he answered, smiling. Rather to his astonishment he felt perfectly calm. He began to chatter pointlessly about the journey. “Found nay way quite easily—as you said, the service is very good. Didn’t think I’d be here half so quickly. You must be pretty far out of town, though—twenty miles, I should guess.”

“Twelve,” the girl corrected.

They began to discuss Surbiton. Then the maid brought in complicated and rather sugary cocktails. They continued to discuss Surbiton. By that time he was beginning to anticipate the arrival of Mr. Newburn with almost passionate eagerness, and was rather surprised when they adjourned to the dining-room without waiting for the gentleman. “Is Mr. Newburn away?” he asked, noticing that places were only laid for three. The girl answered, with outright simplicity: “Father died two years ago.”

Well, that was that, and there was nothing for it but to look sympathetic and change the subject. So, to avoid at all costs the resumption of the Surbiton discussion, he began to talk about Paris, Vienna, and other cities he had lived in during recent years. The girl said: “Mother told me you were in Russia during the Revolution. Do tell us about it!” He smiled and answered: “Well, ell, you know, there was a revolution and a lot of shooting and trouble of most kinds—I don’t know that I can remember much more.” She then said: “I suppose you saw Lenin and Trotsky?”—and he replied: “No, never—and neither of them. I’m rather a fraud, don’t you think?”

Then Philippa chatted about various causes and enterprises she was connected with; they ranged from a hospital for crippled children and a birth- control clinic to Esperanto and Dalcroze eurhythmics. He listened tolerantly, but shook his head when she offered to show him authentic photographs of slum children suffering from rickets. “I’ll willingly subscribe to them,” he said, “but I never care to have my feelings harrowed after a good dinner.” The girl choked with laughter. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “I think they’re horrible photographs, and mother will show them to everybody.” Philippa replied: “I show them because they are so horrible—people ought to realise the horrible things that go on in the world.” He felt suddenly sorry for her then, and said: “It’s a splendid cause, I’m sure, and I didn’t mean to make fun. You will let me send you a cheque, won’t you?”

But he soon perceived that his compassion had been unnecessary. She was tough; she was thick-skinned; she was obviously used to all kinds of gibes. When she told him that it was her habit to stand at street-corners lecturing about birth-control, he felt that he need no longer be afraid of hurting her feelings. He was more sorry, then, for the girl; she was such an ordinary, straightforward, averagely decent girl.

They took coffee in the drawing-room, and when they were comfortably smoking, Philippa suddenly said: “My husband isn’t really dead—my daughter had to tell you that because the maid was there and that is what we tell her. The truth is, he left me.”

“Really?”