out her compact and powdered her nose.
‘Madeleine, my dear child, allow me to pour you out a little glass …’
‘No more, thank you, Tim darling. Really, I must go home soon.’
‘Just a soup çon. We’re all going home soon. Getting on towards bed-time, I begin to think.’ He glanced at her, arrested by a certain tenseness. ‘What’s wrong, eh? Where’s that husband of yours?’
She leaned towards him and murmured, rueful, close to his ear:
‘My dear, he’s slipped off home. Ssh! He didn’t feel awfully well. You know since this wretched gastric trouble he collapses rather if he has late nights. He just hasn’t got any reserve energy, though he won’t admit it. And of course he really ought not to drink, though it seems such a shame on a festive occasion, I can’t bear to be governessy about it.’
‘Oh, the poor old chap!’ exclaimed Tim, all compunction and concern. ‘I am sorry. Was he feeling like hell?’
‘Ssh!—no, nothing much. Just a bit giddy and sick. He’s put down a good deal tonight, you know. We went outside to get some air, then he thought—we both thought—he’d better not come back. Don’t make a thing about it, will you? He told me to make his excuses—he was so afraid of breaking up the party.’
‘Bless his heart. But what a shame. I wish I’d known. It did strike me he looked all in a little while ago—never gave it another thought. Rotten. Take a turn with me, my dear. Or are you worried?’
‘No, I’m not worried. I know so well it’s only sleep he needs. I’d love to take a turn with you.’
They took a long turn together. Tim’s style of dancing was a restful affair of shuffle, sway and turn, coupled with a potent grip of his outspread palm and thumb on her shoulder blades. They discussed the improvement in Rickie’s health, schools for their respective sons, the possibility of sharing a villa near Dinard for September, and other soothing topics. Presently she ceased to cast surreptitious glances towards the entrance, to brace herself for Rickie’s reappearance, the blood of murderous hate still mantling his black face. While Tim’s ripe, husky, rather coaxing and deprecatory voice meandered on, she felt almost herself again. The boiling sense of outrage, the icy sense of panic—both had sunk down. She felt purged, confident, also coolly charitable, almost amused: almost as if all of it had happened in a dream. Owing this to Tim and wishing to show affectionate gratitude, she listened and responded to his conversation with particular sympathy. Goodwill flowed between them; a cosiness with a nostalgic undercurrent. He permitted his memory to dwell upon a romantic passage in a Sussex garden the deuce of a long time ago. He’d been a callow cub then, experimenting with girls and demi-girls and other sorts, considerably more business-like than idealistic; but he’d never quite forgotten how sweet she’d been at eighteen years old, the prettiest girl in the room, and the most oncoming you’d think—and then like as not wincing away like a filly or turning the ice on between one minute and the next. Ready to meet you half-way and a good bit more, solemn, teasing, anxious, laughing—you never knew where you were with her … one kiss in the dark, gauche, inexpert, with no sequel; he’d found out what he wanted to know. She was hot stuff all right—would be when she got into her stride. Might have flown off the handle … never had? Surprising under the circumstances … They must get on well in bed together. That often kept a woman faithful when the chap had other women. Might still? … Nothing would be easier, tonight, more tempting to suggest; nothing, thank God, more absolutely out of the question. Ah well, they were all settling down now, there were compensations …
Prey to the fervour of devoted gratitude aroused in him, not for the first time, by the lineaments of ungratified desire, he gathered her to his chest and pressed her tenderly. She
‘Madeleine, my dear child, allow me to pour you out a little glass …’
‘No more, thank you, Tim darling. Really, I must go home soon.’
‘Just a soup çon. We’re all going home soon. Getting on towards bed-time, I begin to think.’ He glanced at her, arrested by a certain tenseness. ‘What’s wrong, eh? Where’s that husband of yours?’
She leaned towards him and murmured, rueful, close to his ear:
‘My dear, he’s slipped off home. Ssh! He didn’t feel awfully well. You know since this wretched gastric trouble he collapses rather if he has late nights. He just hasn’t got any reserve energy, though he won’t admit it. And of course he really ought not to drink, though it seems such a shame on a festive occasion, I can’t bear to be governessy about it.’
‘Oh, the poor old chap!’ exclaimed Tim, all compunction and concern. ‘I am sorry. Was he feeling like hell?’
‘Ssh!—no, nothing much. Just a bit giddy and sick. He’s put down a good deal tonight, you know. We went outside to get some air, then he thought—we both thought—he’d better not come back. Don’t make a thing about it, will you? He told me to make his excuses—he was so afraid of breaking up the party.’
‘Bless his heart. But what a shame. I wish I’d known. It did strike me he looked all in a little while ago—never gave it another thought. Rotten. Take a turn with me, my dear. Or are you worried?’
‘No, I’m not worried. I know so well it’s only sleep he needs. I’d love to take a turn with you.’
They took a long turn together. Tim’s style of dancing was a restful affair of shuffle, sway and turn, coupled with a potent grip of his outspread palm and thumb on her shoulder blades. They discussed the improvement in Rickie’s health, schools for their respective sons, the possibility of sharing a villa near Dinard for September, and other soothing topics. Presently she ceased to cast surreptitious glances towards the entrance, to brace herself for Rickie’s reappearance, the blood of murderous hate still mantling his black face. While Tim’s ripe, husky, rather coaxing and deprecatory voice meandered on, she felt almost herself again. The boiling sense of outrage, the icy sense of panic—both had sunk down. She felt purged, confident, also coolly charitable, almost amused: almost as if all of it had happened in a dream. Owing this to Tim and wishing to show affectionate gratitude, she listened and responded to his conversation with particular sympathy. Goodwill flowed between them; a cosiness with a nostalgic undercurrent. He permitted his memory to dwell upon a romantic passage in a Sussex garden the deuce of a long time ago. He’d been a callow cub then, experimenting with girls and demi-girls and other sorts, considerably more business-like than idealistic; but he’d never quite forgotten how sweet she’d been at eighteen years old, the prettiest girl in the room, and the most oncoming you’d think—and then like as not wincing away like a filly or turning the ice on between one minute and the next. Ready to meet you half-way and a good bit more, solemn, teasing, anxious, laughing—you never knew where you were with her … one kiss in the dark, gauche, inexpert, with no sequel; he’d found out what he wanted to know. She was hot stuff all right—would be when she got into her stride. Might have flown off the handle … never had? Surprising under the circumstances … They must get on well in bed together. That often kept a woman faithful when the chap had other women. Might still? … Nothing would be easier, tonight, more tempting to suggest; nothing, thank God, more absolutely out of the question. Ah well, they were all settling down now, there were compensations …
Prey to the fervour of devoted gratitude aroused in him, not for the first time, by the lineaments of ungratified desire, he gathered her to his chest and pressed her tenderly. She
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