Knight Without Armour

Then she launched into a detailed account of the catastrophe of her second marriage. The man had been a labour organiser, and he had run off with a girl secretary. He had also speculated with his wife’s money and lost most of it. It was all a rather pathetic story, taking so long to tell that by the time it was nearly over he was having to look at his watch and make hints about a return train. Then followed the usual conventionalities. It had been a most charming evening, he assured her—delightful to have seen her again. She urged him to stay the night, but he said he thought he wouldn’t—all his things at his hotel, and so on. She said she hoped they would meet again soon. She told him that she ran a little informal literary circle that met on alternate Wednesdays in her drawing-room. “We read each other papers, you know—not necessarily on literary subjects—sometimes we get strangers to talk to us—Mr. Wimpole, for instance, gave us a most fascinating chat about old English silver last week. I was wondering, you see, whether you would care to tell us a few of your experiences in Russia; if you would, I am sure—”

But he replied, smiling and shaking his head: “My dear Philippa, none of my Russian experiences were nearly so dreadful as the one you are suggesting.” The girl again laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse—that sort of thing really isn’t in my line at all.”

It was raining and the girl went to the telephone to ring for a taxi. While she was away, Philippa contrived a word or two tęte-ŕ- tęte; she said: “You know, Ainsley, I do hope you’ll soon he conning again and then you must arrange to stay at least for a week-end. I dare-say ’you’ve found it rather odd, meeting me and my daughter together like this—there have been restraints, I know—lots of things I haven’t cared to tell you in front of her. And perhaps you too—what have you been doing, really, since I saw you last? We must meet again soon and tell each other everything.” Hearing the girl approaching, she added: “Anyway, now that you’re intending to make a home in England, we shall simply insist on getting to know you.”

But he was not intending to make a home in England, he reflected a few moments later, as he sat in the corner of the cab.

In his hotel bedroom that night he felt a slow and rather comfortable disappointment soaking into him. Subconsciously he knew he had been expectant over this meeting with Philippa; now he realised, not without relief, that all such expectancy had vanished. It wasn’t only she who had failed him, but he who had failed himself. He didn’t want to know anybody in that eager, confidential way; he had no energy for it; he would rather chat with a stranger in a train whom he would never sec again. It had been a mistake to go to Surbiton; perhaps it had been a mistake even to come to England.

The next morning, after he had talked to the girl in Romano’s Bar- about some theatres he was intending to visit, she said: “You seem to go about a lot by yourself. Haven’t you any friends?”

“Not in London,” he replied. “A few people the other side of the world—mostly Chinamen. That’s all.” He liked to see her eyebrows arch in astonishment.

“I say! Fancy being friends with Chinamen! But you must know somebody in London, if you used to live here?”

“A few business acquaintances, but I don’t count them. Oh, and two people in Surbiton. I went to see them last night, but I don’t suppose I shall go again.”

“Why not? Weren’t they nice to you?”

“Oh yes. Rather nicer, perhaps, than I was to them.”

“Then why—”

He laughed. “Never mind. I hardly know myself. But you can fill me up another glass of sherry and have one with me.”

“Righto, and thanks, though mine’s a gin, if you don’t mind…Well, here’s luck to you, anyway.”

Once he toyed with the idea of asking her out to some theatre or music- hall, but he decided, on reflection and without any sort of snobbishness, that the perfection of their relationship depended on the counter between.

He staved in London over a week, and on the whole he enjoyed himself. He dined at his publisher’s town house and met there a man on the staff of The Times who promptly commissioned from him a series of articles on the future of the rubber industry. It gratified and perhaps slightly surprised him to realise that his book had become, in its own field, something of a classic.