minister in that Department, which isn't known to those people whose business it is to discover and document this kind of potential scandal? What sort of world do you think we're living in?'
He got up and began slowly pacing in front of her. He said:
'I suppose I ought to have thought of that. I would have thought of it given time. Paul's death has been such an appalling shock. I don't think my mind is working properly yet.'
'Then I suggest that it begins working. You and Barbara have to agree on your story. Better still, agree to tell the truth. I take it that Barbara was your mistress when you first introduced her to Hugo and that she remained your
mistress after Hugo was killed and she married Paul.' He stopped and turned to her.
'Believe me, Lady Ursula, it wasn't intended, it wasn't like that.'
'You mean that she and you graciously decided to abstain from your sexual liaison, at least until the honeymoon was over?'
He came and stood in front of her and looked down.
'I think there's something I ought to say but I'm afraid it isn't, well, gentlemanly.' She thought but did not speak: That word is meaningless now. With you it probably always was. Before 1914, one could talk like that without sounding false or ridiculous, but not now. That word and the world it represented have gone for ever, trodden into the mud of Flanders. She said:
'My son's throat was cut. In the light of that brutality, I don't think we need concern ourselves about gentility, spurious or otherwise. It's about Barbara, of course.'
'Yes. There's something you ought to understand if you don't already. I may be her lover but she doesn't love me. She certainly doesn't want to marry me. She's as satisfied
65
with me as she can be with any man. That's because I understand her needs and I don't make demands. Not many demands. We all make some. And, of course, I'm in love with her as far as I'm capable of loving anyone. That's necessary to her. And she feels safe with me. But she wouldn't get rid of a perfectly good husband and a title to marry me. Not by divorce. Certainly not by conniving at murder. You have to believe that if you and she are going
to go on living together.'
She said:
'That at least was frank. You seem well suited to each other.'
He accepted the subtle insult behind the irony.
'Oh yes,' he said sadly, 'we suit each other.' He added, 'I suspect she doesn't even feel particularly guilty. Less so than I do, oddly enough. It's difficult to take adultery seriously if you're not getting much pleasure out of it.'
'Your role must be exhausting and hardly satisfying. I admire your self-sacrifice.'
His smile was reminiscent, secretive.
'She's so beautiful. It's absolute, isn't it? It doesn't even depend on whether she's well or happy or not tired or on what she wears. It's always there. You can't blame me for trying.'
'Oh yes,' she said, 'I can, and I do.'
But she knew that she was being less than honest. All her life she had been beguiled by physical beauty in men and in women. It was what she had lived by. When, in 1918, with her brother and fianc both killed, she, an earl's daughter, had gone on the stage in defiance of tradition, what else had she to offer? Not, she thought with wry honesty, any great dramatic talent. She had, almost casually and instinctively, demanded physical beauty ih her lovers and had been unjealous and over-indulgent of it in her women friends. They had been the more surprised when, at the age of 32, she had married Sir Henry Berowne, apparently for less obvious qualities, and had given him two sons. She thought now of her daughter-in-law as she had watched her many times, standing motion
66
less in front of the glass in the hall. Barbara was incapable of passing a mirror without that moment of narcissistic stillness, that calm reflective gaze. What had she been watching for? That first droop from the corner of the eyes, the fading blue, the dry fold of skin, the first cr6ping of the neck which would
He got up and began slowly pacing in front of her. He said:
'I suppose I ought to have thought of that. I would have thought of it given time. Paul's death has been such an appalling shock. I don't think my mind is working properly yet.'
'Then I suggest that it begins working. You and Barbara have to agree on your story. Better still, agree to tell the truth. I take it that Barbara was your mistress when you first introduced her to Hugo and that she remained your
mistress after Hugo was killed and she married Paul.' He stopped and turned to her.
'Believe me, Lady Ursula, it wasn't intended, it wasn't like that.'
'You mean that she and you graciously decided to abstain from your sexual liaison, at least until the honeymoon was over?'
He came and stood in front of her and looked down.
'I think there's something I ought to say but I'm afraid it isn't, well, gentlemanly.' She thought but did not speak: That word is meaningless now. With you it probably always was. Before 1914, one could talk like that without sounding false or ridiculous, but not now. That word and the world it represented have gone for ever, trodden into the mud of Flanders. She said:
'My son's throat was cut. In the light of that brutality, I don't think we need concern ourselves about gentility, spurious or otherwise. It's about Barbara, of course.'
'Yes. There's something you ought to understand if you don't already. I may be her lover but she doesn't love me. She certainly doesn't want to marry me. She's as satisfied
65
with me as she can be with any man. That's because I understand her needs and I don't make demands. Not many demands. We all make some. And, of course, I'm in love with her as far as I'm capable of loving anyone. That's necessary to her. And she feels safe with me. But she wouldn't get rid of a perfectly good husband and a title to marry me. Not by divorce. Certainly not by conniving at murder. You have to believe that if you and she are going
to go on living together.'
She said:
'That at least was frank. You seem well suited to each other.'
He accepted the subtle insult behind the irony.
'Oh yes,' he said sadly, 'we suit each other.' He added, 'I suspect she doesn't even feel particularly guilty. Less so than I do, oddly enough. It's difficult to take adultery seriously if you're not getting much pleasure out of it.'
'Your role must be exhausting and hardly satisfying. I admire your self-sacrifice.'
His smile was reminiscent, secretive.
'She's so beautiful. It's absolute, isn't it? It doesn't even depend on whether she's well or happy or not tired or on what she wears. It's always there. You can't blame me for trying.'
'Oh yes,' she said, 'I can, and I do.'
But she knew that she was being less than honest. All her life she had been beguiled by physical beauty in men and in women. It was what she had lived by. When, in 1918, with her brother and fianc both killed, she, an earl's daughter, had gone on the stage in defiance of tradition, what else had she to offer? Not, she thought with wry honesty, any great dramatic talent. She had, almost casually and instinctively, demanded physical beauty ih her lovers and had been unjealous and over-indulgent of it in her women friends. They had been the more surprised when, at the age of 32, she had married Sir Henry Berowne, apparently for less obvious qualities, and had given him two sons. She thought now of her daughter-in-law as she had watched her many times, standing motion
66
less in front of the glass in the hall. Barbara was incapable of passing a mirror without that moment of narcissistic stillness, that calm reflective gaze. What had she been watching for? That first droop from the corner of the eyes, the fading blue, the dry fold of skin, the first cr6ping of the neck which would
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