The Charioteer by Mary Renault Page A

herself an impression of this kind, no subsequent explanations ever shifted it. Laurie had long given this one up. “Is that girl his ‘young lady,’ dear? Do try and warn him not to marry her. Oh, is she? Oh, I see. Well, girls of that class are often so unfair to themselves. I expect under all that make-up she’s really quite a nice little thing.”
    Laurie found a glance being shot at him from the corner of Mr. Straike’s eye. He gathered from it that his mother was a pure, generous woman, while he and Mr. Straike were men of the world making their own little reservations. As soon as he had looked away from this glance without response, Laurie knew that a line had been crossed. Some events are crucial from their very slightness; because circumstances have used no force on them, they are unequivocally what they are, test-tube reactions of personality. Between Laurie and Mr. Straike there began to weave the first fine filaments of a dislike mutually known.
    As they walked up the path to the wards, Mr. Straike kept them entertained with a humorous account of how they used to detect malingerers in the base hospitals of Flanders in 1916.
    The patients’ tea was being served as they arrived. Lacking transport there was nowhere else to go but here. Laurie guessed by now that his mother had foreseen Mr. Straike’s chivalrous insistence on paying the car fare, which ordinarily she and Laurie would have shared together. (He wouldn’t consider it really necessary, either, and through all his protestations this would somehow appear.) Now, the trolley arriving, both the others insisted that Laurie should not miss his tea. He assured them he wasn’t hungry, knowing the inflexible rule against treating visitors; there was no getting around it, since there were only just enough cups for the patients themselves.
    “Nonsense,” said Mr. Straike bluffly. “You take everything that’s going, my boy, it’s the only way in the army, I know, ha-ha. Just have a word with the nurse, and tell her to rustle up a cup for your mother too. Tell her she’s come a long way. She’ll understand.”
    Laboriously, Laurie explained about the crockery. Mrs. Odell looked understanding, Mr. Straike surprised and reserved. Laurie felt forced to add that half these people had come from the other side of England, and it would cause hurt feelings if exceptions were made. Everyone agreed to this, leaving Laurie with a damp sense of ineffectuality. He offered his mother a drink from his own cup, the accepted practice, and collected it from her, firmly, before she could suggest passing it on. Embarrassment, damp and penetrating as a mountain mist, settled upon the party.
    Laurie had always known in his inmost heart that there were times when, if his mother couldn’t have her cake and eat it, she would convince herself that someone else must be to blame. A bitter conviction told him that this time it wouldn’t be Mr. Straike.
    Conversation, however, had to go on. Mrs. Odell had brought as usual the local gossip for Laurie’s amusement. She enjoyed being very slightly shocked by his comments and making womanly, reproving little exclamations. Laurie found Mr. Straike’s reaction to this as exactly predictable as if they had known one another for years; so he listened with Sunday-school brightness, saying, “No, really?” from time to time. The footnotes were provided by Mr. Straike. It seemed to Laurie, who was admittedly prejudiced, that their manly humor was not of the kind that is inspired by good nature.
    For the first time, the clock’s approach to his mother’s hour of departure was a signal of relief. At the last moment Mr. Straike withdrew, as he put it, to “explore the place.” Laurie had almost risen to show him the way, but suddenly saw in his face a conscious tact. Laurie and his mother were being left alone to exchange their little confidences. Their awareness of this, combined with feelings, for which there would be no time to find