Rolling Stone by Patricia Wentworth

her. And the things she might have said if she had thought of them in time, and the things they might have said if they had all been living in the Palace of Truth. None of these thoughts was quiet company. Some of them shouted at the tops of their voices, and then she had to try and shout them down. She kept her eyes on the long grey road under the dusk and said,
    â€œAm I quiet?”
    Mr. Ridgefield turned a little in his seat, surveyed her through his monocle, and said in solicitous tone,
    â€œYes, my dear. What is the matter—didn’t you enjoy yourself?”
    Terry looked round at him quickly, and then back again at the road. How extraordinarily like Uncle Basil to be surprised if you hadn’t enjoyed yourself, when there had been a burglary, and policemen all over the place. That sort of thing didn’t disturb anyone else. He would be sorry that the Cresswells should lose a picture they valued, and he had displayed a charming sympathy, but being sorry and sympathetic was just as much a part of his social manner as saying good-morning or how do you do, and it meant as little. Terry had a feeling that it wouldn’t have meant much more if the Cresswells had lost a child instead of a picture. Uncle Basil had lovely manners for every occasion, but she had sometimes wondered what would happen if you could strip the lovely manners off. Was there anything underneath that could laugh, and cry, and feel, and love and hate as Terry herself could, or would there be only a little grey, dry, shrivelled thing like the withered kernel of a nut?
    Terry wondered, and was smitten with compunction, because he was always so kind to her, and when people got over fifty perhaps you couldn’t expect them to have real feelings any more. Perhaps when Terry Clive was fifty—(help!)—all the living, tumultuous feelings which were her would be withered away to something all grey and quiet—“And one might just as well be dead!” said Terry passionately to herself.
    Her eyes sparkled, but she didn’t look round again.
    â€œDo you enjoy burglaries and policemen, Uncle Basil?”
    Mr. Ridgefield laughed.
    â€œWell, my dear, you will think it very shocking of me, but in a way I do—I should say I did . But I beg that you will not tell the Cresswells. You see, I was afraid that I was going to be bored. Norah Margesson bores me. She expects me to make love to her. You have probably noticed that she expects every man to make love to her, and a dozen years ago a good many of us were quite willing to oblige. Now—” he shrugged his shoulders—“I am quite determined to remain young, and I find that exceptionally boring. And as for the rest of the party, Pearla Yorke is a lovely creature, but James Cresswell really should not allow her to play bridge. She revoked three times when she was playing with me, and only once with James, which I consider unfair. It would bore me to play bridge with Helen of Troy if she revoked. And James Cresswell is in a frame of mind in which he would bore anyone. So, you see, I feared the worst. The burglary was really quite a god-send, but it seems to have disturbed you—rather unduly, I think. May I ask why?”
    Terry said, “Yes”; and then, “I was going to tell you, Uncle Basil.”
    Mr. Ridgefield said, “Dear me, this sounds very portentous.”
    â€œOh,” said Terry, “it’s horrid. I didn’t think anything could be so horrid.”
    â€œMy dear child—”
    Terry looked round for a moment, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes.
    â€œYou see, I really do love Emily. I know she bores you, but I love her. I wouldn’t mind if it was only Mr. Cresswell, because I don’t think he treats her at all nicely, and he’s got lots of money, so he could buy another picture.”
    Basil Ridgefield gazed at her in mild horror.
    â€œMy dear Terry, you can’t just go out and buy