What’s-her-name make you one the minute we get there. Can you manage? Lean on my arm. We’ve only a few more yards to go.”
“Dody’s her name. Dody Schooner. I’m all right, really. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Ah yes, Schooner. Why do I never see her with that clever husband of hers? Amusing chap. Always on the boil. One feels the lid’s just about to pop off.”
“It did. And he popped off with it.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“India.”
“How sad for her.”
“Not really. Good riddance.”
“Steady, now,” he cautioned me. “That facile cynicism’s sneaking up again.”
“But wasn’t that what you said to me at lunch today? You know, about he that made you bitter making you wise?”
“But that’s quite different from letting he that made you wise make you
bitter
.”
“Is it? Well rah-rah.” I sighed. “I guess
I
don’t know anything.”
“I do,” he announced in a calm completely out of context voice, giving my arm a squeeze—or was it a caress?
“What’s the scoop?”
“I know that my head is spinning from trying to make you out. Do you believe in the battle of the sexes? That is, do you believe it exists?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because I have the definite impression that we are at war with each other.”
“But I like you very much,” I protested.
C. D. smiled wistfully. “That seldom has anything to do with it,” he said.
All the way up the stairs we could hear Dody’s gramophone blasting away full force. We had to press the bell hard several times before she answered.
“It’s
West Side Story
,” she said excitedly as she opened the door, raising her voice to be heard over the music. “I went and bought it this afternoon. Isn’t it marvellous? Scotty hated American musicals. Listen to that brilliant orchestration with all those wild repetitions. It’s like a symphony. Don’t you adore it?”
“The needle is stuck,” said C. D.
She looked at us while the gramophone blasted five more da-
da
! da-
da
! da-a da-
da
’s at us. “You’re right,” she cried and left us standing there while she ran to turn the thing off.
“How did you know?” she asked him, upon returning. “I mean it sounded so on purpose.”
“It’s always happening to my gramophone,” he told her kindly, while Dody gazed upon him with awe. Suddenly she shook herself.
“Come in, come in. Goodness, how rude of me. I’m all topsy-turvy these days.”
“I’ll only stay a minute. Miss Flood is utterly fagged from our day’s outing. Entirely my fault. Might she have a cup of tea?”
“But of course. Where are my manners?” She sprang into action. “It’s been so long since I’ve entertained. Oh damn and blast!” She stopped suddenly mid-flight and sank into the nearest chair. “I—I don’t think we’ve got any more,” she said in a small voice. “Scotty decided a couple of months ago that he hated tea. He said it was a filthy English habit.”
“What is he drinking in India then?”
“I don’t— Oh. So you know.”
“It’s my fault—I told him,” I put in quickly. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“No, it’s only...I’m only...I don’t know where I’m at.” And she waved her hand impatiently as if she would like to fling herself away from her. “But what will he drink there?” she pursued. “Isn’t there some local brew?”
“Yes,” said C. D. “Tea.”
“Oh of course. Indian tea. I’ll run out and buy some now.”
“No, don’t bother. Alcohol will do as well, won’t it, Honey? What would you like?”
“Gosh, I don’t care. Sherry, I guess.”
“Oh dear, I haven’t any sherry either,” cried Dody in distress.
“Did he hate Spain too?” inquired C.D. politely.
“No. He hated gentility. He said drinking sherry was genteel.”
“How did he feel about gin?”
“We’ve got bottles of it,” she said brightening. “Would you like a gin and something, Honey?”
“Don’t bother about me please,”
“Dody’s her name. Dody Schooner. I’m all right, really. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Ah yes, Schooner. Why do I never see her with that clever husband of hers? Amusing chap. Always on the boil. One feels the lid’s just about to pop off.”
“It did. And he popped off with it.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“India.”
“How sad for her.”
“Not really. Good riddance.”
“Steady, now,” he cautioned me. “That facile cynicism’s sneaking up again.”
“But wasn’t that what you said to me at lunch today? You know, about he that made you bitter making you wise?”
“But that’s quite different from letting he that made you wise make you
bitter
.”
“Is it? Well rah-rah.” I sighed. “I guess
I
don’t know anything.”
“I do,” he announced in a calm completely out of context voice, giving my arm a squeeze—or was it a caress?
“What’s the scoop?”
“I know that my head is spinning from trying to make you out. Do you believe in the battle of the sexes? That is, do you believe it exists?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because I have the definite impression that we are at war with each other.”
“But I like you very much,” I protested.
C. D. smiled wistfully. “That seldom has anything to do with it,” he said.
All the way up the stairs we could hear Dody’s gramophone blasting away full force. We had to press the bell hard several times before she answered.
“It’s
West Side Story
,” she said excitedly as she opened the door, raising her voice to be heard over the music. “I went and bought it this afternoon. Isn’t it marvellous? Scotty hated American musicals. Listen to that brilliant orchestration with all those wild repetitions. It’s like a symphony. Don’t you adore it?”
“The needle is stuck,” said C. D.
She looked at us while the gramophone blasted five more da-
da
! da-
da
! da-a da-
da
’s at us. “You’re right,” she cried and left us standing there while she ran to turn the thing off.
“How did you know?” she asked him, upon returning. “I mean it sounded so on purpose.”
“It’s always happening to my gramophone,” he told her kindly, while Dody gazed upon him with awe. Suddenly she shook herself.
“Come in, come in. Goodness, how rude of me. I’m all topsy-turvy these days.”
“I’ll only stay a minute. Miss Flood is utterly fagged from our day’s outing. Entirely my fault. Might she have a cup of tea?”
“But of course. Where are my manners?” She sprang into action. “It’s been so long since I’ve entertained. Oh damn and blast!” She stopped suddenly mid-flight and sank into the nearest chair. “I—I don’t think we’ve got any more,” she said in a small voice. “Scotty decided a couple of months ago that he hated tea. He said it was a filthy English habit.”
“What is he drinking in India then?”
“I don’t— Oh. So you know.”
“It’s my fault—I told him,” I put in quickly. “I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“No, it’s only...I’m only...I don’t know where I’m at.” And she waved her hand impatiently as if she would like to fling herself away from her. “But what will he drink there?” she pursued. “Isn’t there some local brew?”
“Yes,” said C. D. “Tea.”
“Oh of course. Indian tea. I’ll run out and buy some now.”
“No, don’t bother. Alcohol will do as well, won’t it, Honey? What would you like?”
“Gosh, I don’t care. Sherry, I guess.”
“Oh dear, I haven’t any sherry either,” cried Dody in distress.
“Did he hate Spain too?” inquired C.D. politely.
“No. He hated gentility. He said drinking sherry was genteel.”
“How did he feel about gin?”
“We’ve got bottles of it,” she said brightening. “Would you like a gin and something, Honey?”
“Don’t bother about me please,”
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