stairs, as decidedly adult. It must be the face of a steady happiness,
a calm possession, that he couldn't imagine, or even exactly hope for.
He needed some air, but there was a clatter in the hall as people ran back indoors. Outside, from an obscured night sky, a
fine rain had started falling. Nick watched it drifting and gleaming in the upcast light of a large globed lantern. Out in
the circle of the drive a couple of chauffeurs were sitting in the front of a Daimler with the map-light on, waiting and chatting.
And there was Wani's soft-top Mercedes, with its embarrassing number plate WHO 6. A voice brayed, "Right! Everyone on the
dance floor!" And there was a ragged chorus of agreement.
"Hoorah! Dancing!" said a drunk Sloanish girl, staring into Nick's face as though with an effort she might remember him.
"Where is the ruddy dance floor?" said the braying boy. They had wandered back into the hall, which was being cleared with
illusionless efficiency by the staff.
Nick said, "It's in the smoking room," excited by knowing this, and by suddenly taking the lead. They all straggled after
him, the Sloaney girl laughing wildly and shouting, "Yah, it's in the smoking room!" and sending him up, as the funny little
man who knew the way.
A friend of Toby's had come down from London to do the disco, and red and blue spotlights flashed on and off above the paintings
of the first Baron Kessler's numerous racehorses. Most of the group started grooving around at once, a little awkwardly, but
with happy, determined expressions. Nick lounged along the wall, as if he might start dancing any moment, then came back,
nodding his head to the beat, and walked quickly out of the room. It was that song "Every Breath You Take" that they'd played
over and over last term at Oxford. It made him abruptly sad.
He felt restless and forgotten, peripheral to an event which, he remembered, had once been thought of as his party too. His
loneliness bewildered him for a minute, in the bleak perspective of the bachelors' corridor: a sense close to panic that he
didn't belong in this house with these people. Some of the guests had gone into the library and as he approached the open
door he took in the scant conversational texture, over which one or two voices held forth as if by right. Gerald said words
Nick couldn't catch the meaning of, and through the general laughter another voice, which he half-recognized, put in a quick
correcting "Not if I know Margaret!" Nick stood at the doorway of the lamplit room and felt for a second like a drunken student,
which he was, and also, more shadowy and inconsolable, a sleepless child peering in at an adult world of bare shoulders, flushed
faces, and cigar smoke. Rachel caught his eye, and smiled, and he went in—Gerald, standing at the empty fireplace in the swaggering
stance of someone warming himself, called out, "Ah, Nick!" but there were too many people for introductions, a large loose
circle who turned momentarily to inspect him and turned back as if they'd failed to see anything at all.
Rachel was sitting on a small sofa, apart from the others, with a wrinkled old lady dressed in black, who made Rachel in her
turn seem a beautiful, rather mischievous young woman. She said, "Judy, have you met Nick Guest, Toby's great friend? This
is Lady Partridge—Gerald's mother."
"Oh no!" said Nick. "I'm delighted to meet you."
"How do you do," said the old lady, with a dry jovial look. Toby's great friend —there was a phrase to savour, to analyse for its generosity, its innocence, its calculation.
Rachel shifted slightly, but there was really no space for him on the sofa. In her great spread stiffish dress of lavender
silk she was like a Sargent portrait of eighty years earlier, of the time when Henry James had come to stay. Nick stood before
them and smiled.
"You do smell nice," Rachel said, almost flirtingly, as a mother sometimes speaks to a child who is dressed
a calm possession, that he couldn't imagine, or even exactly hope for.
He needed some air, but there was a clatter in the hall as people ran back indoors. Outside, from an obscured night sky, a
fine rain had started falling. Nick watched it drifting and gleaming in the upcast light of a large globed lantern. Out in
the circle of the drive a couple of chauffeurs were sitting in the front of a Daimler with the map-light on, waiting and chatting.
And there was Wani's soft-top Mercedes, with its embarrassing number plate WHO 6. A voice brayed, "Right! Everyone on the
dance floor!" And there was a ragged chorus of agreement.
"Hoorah! Dancing!" said a drunk Sloanish girl, staring into Nick's face as though with an effort she might remember him.
"Where is the ruddy dance floor?" said the braying boy. They had wandered back into the hall, which was being cleared with
illusionless efficiency by the staff.
Nick said, "It's in the smoking room," excited by knowing this, and by suddenly taking the lead. They all straggled after
him, the Sloaney girl laughing wildly and shouting, "Yah, it's in the smoking room!" and sending him up, as the funny little
man who knew the way.
A friend of Toby's had come down from London to do the disco, and red and blue spotlights flashed on and off above the paintings
of the first Baron Kessler's numerous racehorses. Most of the group started grooving around at once, a little awkwardly, but
with happy, determined expressions. Nick lounged along the wall, as if he might start dancing any moment, then came back,
nodding his head to the beat, and walked quickly out of the room. It was that song "Every Breath You Take" that they'd played
over and over last term at Oxford. It made him abruptly sad.
He felt restless and forgotten, peripheral to an event which, he remembered, had once been thought of as his party too. His
loneliness bewildered him for a minute, in the bleak perspective of the bachelors' corridor: a sense close to panic that he
didn't belong in this house with these people. Some of the guests had gone into the library and as he approached the open
door he took in the scant conversational texture, over which one or two voices held forth as if by right. Gerald said words
Nick couldn't catch the meaning of, and through the general laughter another voice, which he half-recognized, put in a quick
correcting "Not if I know Margaret!" Nick stood at the doorway of the lamplit room and felt for a second like a drunken student,
which he was, and also, more shadowy and inconsolable, a sleepless child peering in at an adult world of bare shoulders, flushed
faces, and cigar smoke. Rachel caught his eye, and smiled, and he went in—Gerald, standing at the empty fireplace in the swaggering
stance of someone warming himself, called out, "Ah, Nick!" but there were too many people for introductions, a large loose
circle who turned momentarily to inspect him and turned back as if they'd failed to see anything at all.
Rachel was sitting on a small sofa, apart from the others, with a wrinkled old lady dressed in black, who made Rachel in her
turn seem a beautiful, rather mischievous young woman. She said, "Judy, have you met Nick Guest, Toby's great friend? This
is Lady Partridge—Gerald's mother."
"Oh no!" said Nick. "I'm delighted to meet you."
"How do you do," said the old lady, with a dry jovial look. Toby's great friend —there was a phrase to savour, to analyse for its generosity, its innocence, its calculation.
Rachel shifted slightly, but there was really no space for him on the sofa. In her great spread stiffish dress of lavender
silk she was like a Sargent portrait of eighty years earlier, of the time when Henry James had come to stay. Nick stood before
them and smiled.
"You do smell nice," Rachel said, almost flirtingly, as a mother sometimes speaks to a child who is dressed
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