At Lady Molly's by Anthony Powell Page A

brother’s way of life, but, unlike her uncle, was not prepared to acquiesce in all criticism of Erridge.
    ‘Do you know my brother, Erridge—Warminster, rather?’ she asked me, suddenly.
    She smiled like someone who wishes to encourage a child who possesses information more accurate, or more interesting, than that available to grown-ups; but one who might be too shy or too intractable to impart such knowledge.
    ‘I used to know him by sight.’
    ‘He has some rather odd ideas,’ she said. ‘But I expect you heard plenty about that at Molly Jeavons’s. They have hardly anything else to talk about there. He is a real blessing to them.’
    ‘Oh, I think they have got plenty to talk about,’ said Mrs. Conyers. ‘Too much, in fact.’
    ‘I don’t deny that Erridge has more than one bee in his bonnet,’ said the General, unexpectedly. ‘But I doubt if he is such a fool as some people seem to think him. He is just what they call nowadays introverted.’
    ‘Oh, Erry isn’t a fool,’ said Frederica. ‘He is rather too clever in a way—and an awful nuisance as an eldest brother. There may be something to be said for his ideas. It is the way he sets about them.’
    ‘Is it true that he has been a tramp?’ I asked.
    ‘Not actually been one, I think,’ said Frederica. ‘Making a study of them, isn’t it?’
    ‘Is he going to write a book about it?’ asked Mrs. Conyers. ‘There have been several books of that sort lately, haven’t there? Have you read anything else interesting, Nicholas? I always expect people like you to tell me what to put down on my library list.’
    ‘I’ve been reading something called Orlando ,’’ said the General. ‘Virginia Woolf. Ever heard of it?’
    ‘I read it when it first came out.’
    ‘What do you think of it?’
    ‘Rather hard to say in a word.’
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He turned to Frederica.
    ‘Ever read Orlando?’
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’ve heard of it.’
    ‘Bertha didn’t like it,’ he said.
    ‘Couldn’t get on with it,’ said Mrs. Conyers, emphatically. ‘I wish St. John Clarke would write a new one. He hasn’t published a book for years. I wonder whether he is dead. I used to love his novels, especially Fields of Amaranth .’
    ‘Odd stuff, Orlando ,’ said the General, who was not easily shifted from his subject. ‘Starts about a young man in the fifteen-hundreds. Then, about eighteen-thirty, he turns into a woman. You say you’ve read it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you like it? Yes or no?’
    ‘Not greatly.’
    ‘You didn’t?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘The woman can write, you know.’
    ‘Yes, I can see that. I still didn’t like it.’
    The General thought again for some seconds.
    ‘Well, I shall read a bit more of it,’ he said, at last. ‘Don’t want to waste too much time on that sort of thing, of course. Now, psychoanalysis. Ever read anything about that? Sure you have. That was what I was on over Christmas.’
    ‘I’ve dipped into it from time to time. I can’t say I’m much of an expert.’
    ‘Been reading a lot about it lately,’ said the General. ‘Freud—Jung—haven’t much use for Adler. Something in it, you know. Tells you why you do things. All the same, I didn’t find it much help in understanding Orlando.’
    Once more he fell into a state of coma. It was astonishing to me that he should have been reading about psychoanalysis, although his mental equipment was certainly in no way inferior to that of many persons who talked of such things all day long. When he had used the word ‘introverted’ I had thought that no more than repetition of a current popular term. I saw now that the subject had thoroughly engaged his attention. However, he wished to discuss it no further at that moment. Neither of the two ladies seemed to share his interest.
    ‘Is it true that your sister, Mildred, is going to marry again?’ asked Frederica. ‘Someone told me so the other day. They could not remember the name of the