To leave a public dinner at the height of its fever is not easy, and it is to be doubted whether mere senile gloom, however profound, would have been enough to nerve Berry to the task. But at this moment his eye fell on the table at the top of the room, along which, on either side of the President, were seated some twenty of the elect: and it now flashed upon him that of these at least eight must almost certainly be intending to make speeches. And right in the middle of them, with a nasty, vicious look in his eye, sat a Bishop.
Anybody who has ever attended Old Boys' dinners knows that Bishops are tough stuff. They take their time, these prelates. They mouth their words and shape their periods. They roam with frightful deliberation from the grave to the gay, from the manly straightforward to the whimsically jocular. Not one of them but is good for at least twenty-five minutes.
Berry hesitated no longer. The Banquet had reached the Petrified Quail stage now, which meant that there was only the Hair-Oil Ice-cream, the Embalmed Sardines on Toast and the Arsenical Coffee to go before the dam of oratory would burst. There was not an instant to be lost. He pushed his chair back and sidled furtively to the door. He reached the door and pulled it open. He slid through and closed it behind him.
He was standing now in the main lobby of the hotel. Festive-looking men and women were passing through, some to the dining-room, whence strains of music proceeded, others to the lifts. There seemed to be a dance or some other sort of entertainment in progress upstairs somewhere, for traffic on the lifts was heavy. Revellers were being taken up in dozens, and Berry watched them with a growing feeling of desolation and disapproval. Their light-heartedness irked him as the exuberance of his recent companions in the Oriental Banquet-Room had irked him. It is not pleasant, when one is face to face with one's soul, to see a lot of fatheads enjoying themselves. Berry had achieved by this time a frame of mind which would have qualified him to walk straight into a Tchekov play and no questions asked: and he resented all this idiotic gaiety. As the crackling of thorns under a pot, he felt, so is the laughter of a fool.
An unusually large consignment was on the point of starting now. The lift was crammed with perishers of both sexes – the girls giggling and the men what-whating in a carefree manner that made him feel sick. So full was it that it scarcely seemed as if there would be room for the girl in the green opera-cloak who was hurrying with her escort across the lobby. But the man at the wheel contrived to squeeze them in somehow, and as the car started on its journey the girl turned to her companion and said something with a smile. And for the first time Berry saw her face.
And, as he saw it, the lobby rocked about him. A wordless exclamation burst from his lips. Reeling, he clutched at a passing waiter.
'Sir?' said the waiter, courteously ceasing to pass.
Berry smiled radiantly at the man. He could only see him through a sort of mist, but he was able to realize that this was by a considerable margin the nicest-looking waiter he had ever set eyes on. And all those people in the lifts – how wrong he had been, he now saw, in thinking of them as perishers. They were in reality a most extraordinarily jolly crowd. And how capital it was to think that they were enjoying themselves so much.
'What's going on up there?' he asked.
The waiter informed him that Sir Herbert and Lady Bassinger were giving a ball in the Crystal Room on the first floor.
'Ah!' said Berry thoughtfully. 'A ball, eh?'
He handed the man half a crown, and stood for a moment gazing wistfully across the lobby. How splendid, he was thinking, it would have been if only he had been acquainted with these Bassingers. Then they might have invited him. . . .
Berry pulled himself up with a start. He was shocked to find that for an instant he had been allowing himself to fall so far from the standard of a man of enterprise, dash, and resource as to look on a card of invitation as an essential preliminary to the enjoyment of the hospitality of Sir Herbert and Lady Bassinger. But it had been merely a passing weakness. He was himself again now, and what he felt was that any ballroom, Bassinger or non-Bassinger, where that girl was to be found, was Liberty Hall for him.
The lift had just descended, and was standing on the ground floor once more, waiting for custom. Berry pulled down his waistcoat and walked towards it with resolute steps.
II
Lady Bassinger's ball at the Hotel Mazarin was an entertainment to which Ann Moon had been looking forward with pleasurable anticipation. Toddy Malling, the young man who, in the unfortunate absence of her fiancé, Lord Biskerton, was acting as her escort, had been almost lyrical about it in the car. It promised, said Toddy, to be the jamboree of the season. Champagne, he assured her, always flowed like water where the Bassingers set up their banner.
'Old B.,' said Toddy, 'is not the sort of fellow I'd care to go on a walking-tour with, but at providing refreshment for man and beast he has few equals. He made about ten million quid in the clove market. And God bless cloves, say I,' he added devoutly.
On Toddy's suggestion, they had made straight for the supper-room. He held the view, for which there was much to be said, that it was silly to think of doing any hoof-shaking till they had stoked up. Having deposited Ann at a table for two, he had gone off to forage. And now she was sitting waiting for him to come back. And, as she watched the crowd, she wished that she could achieve something of the hearty party-spirit which so obviously animated Sir Herbert and Lady Bassinger's other guests. She was conscious of a feeling of flatness ill-attuned to the rollicking note of the festivities.
It was strange, she reflected. Her conscience assured her that the most sensible thing she had ever done in her life was to drive off in her car and leave that attractive young man to catch his Sniffers for himself. She was engaged, Conscience pointed out, and girls who have plighted their troth must not hob-nob with handsome Secret Servicemen. And yet, so far from experiencing the glow of satisfaction which good girls are entitled to expect, she was feeling as if she had deliberately thrown away something wonderful and precious.
In torturing himself with the thought that this girl had forgotten him, Berry Conway had tortured himself unnecessarily.
'Bollinger, one bot.,' said Toddy Malling, appearing suddenly at her side. 'I snaffled it off another table. Stick to it like glue and guard it with your life.'
The supper-room was looking now like a popular store during a bargain-sale. The idea of taking refreshment before dancing had not occurred to Toddy alone. On every side, thrustful cavaliers, like knights jousting for their ladies, were hurling themselves into the dense throng that masked the table where food and drink were being doled out. Supper at a Bassinger ball was always a test of manhood, and the lucky ones were those who had played Rugby football at school.
'Somewhere in the heart of that mob,' said Toddy, laying his precious burden on the table, 'there is provender of sorts. I'll try to get you something. I can't guarantee what it will be, but are you more or less prepared for whatever I can snitch?'
'Anything,' said Ann. She came out of her thoughts with a little jump. 'I'm not hungry.'
'You're not?' said her escort incredulously. 'Gosh! I could eat old Bassinger in person, if a spot of chutney went with him. I'll try to hook a chicken. Amuse yourself somehow while I'm gone. And if I don't come back, you'll know I died game.'
He disappeared again, and Ann returned to her thoughts.
Yes, something wonderful and precious. And she had thrown it away. And its going had left life flat and monotonous.
And that was odd, too, because she had never supposed that anything could make life seem monotonous. She had always had the enviable gift of being able to enjoy. Even when in the midst of the Clarence Dumphrys and surrounded by the Twombley Burwashes, she had never really been bored. But now, beyond a doubt, she was. And it seemed to her that, except during that short summer afternoon's ride, she always had been. That ride stood out in her memory like an oasis in a desert, the solitary break in a dull and unprofitable existence.
The crowd
was surging to and fro. Sharp, anguished cries rang through the room, as men balancing plates of salmon mayonnaise perceived men with plates of chicken salad backing into them. The heat and the noise combined to induce in Ann a distant dreaminess. Dimly she became aware that somebody was sitting down in the chair opposite her, and she roused herself to protect the rights of the absent Toddy.
'I'm sorry. That chair is . . .'
She broke off. She was not dreaming now. Her whole body was tingling as though fire had touched it.
'Oh!' said Ann breathlessly.
And that, for a while, was all she was able to say. Her heart was racing, and already Conscience was beginning to comment on the deplorable way in which her lips had begun to tremble.
'All wrong!' said Conscience rebukingly. 'This man is nothing but a casual acquaintance. Treat him as such. Bow stiffly.'
Ann did not bow stiffly. She went on staring. And across the table the intruder went on staring.
A young man in spectacles, bearing treasure trove on a plate, tripped over somebody's foot and bumped heavily into the table. Something fell squashily between them.
'My cutlet, I think,' said the young man, retrieving it. 'Awfully sorry.'
He passed on, and Ann found herself able to smile a tremulous smile.
'Good evening!' she said.
'Good evening.'
'You do keep popping up, don't you!' said Ann. 'You always seem to appear from nowhere, out of a trap.'
Her companion did not smile. There was something forceful and urgent about him. He conveyed the impression of one who is in a hurry and in no mood for light conversation.
'Where did you get to that day?' he asked abruptly, and frowned, as if at an unpleasant memory.
Ann braced herself to be cool and quelling. She told herself that she resented his tone. He had spoken as if he supposed that he had some claim on her, regarding her as something belonging to him. This, she told herself, offended her, and rightly.
'I went home,' she said.
'Why?'
'Isn't a woman's place the home?'
'It was an awful shock when I came out and found you gone.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I couldn't think where you had got to.'
'Really?'
('The right tone?' asked Ann of her Conscience.
'Quite right,' replied Conscience. 'Admirable. Keep it up.')
'By the way,' said Ann, 'was that man The Sniffer?'
Her companion started. For the first time, the forcefulness of his manner was tempered by something that seemed almost embarrassment. A flush had come into his face, and his eyes, instead of gazing piercingly into hers, wandered away to one side.
'Look here,' he said awkwardly, 'I want to tell you something. You see . . .'
He paused.
'Yes?' said Ann.
'I feel I ought to . . .'
He appeared to be hovering on the brink of a revelation of some kind.
'Well?' said Ann.
Another young man, this time without spectacles, charged breezily into the table, rocking it to its foundations.
'Frightfully sorry,' he said. 'There's an awful storm going on out here. Heaven help the poor sailors.'
He paused to scoop up a portion of chicken salad, and went out of their lives for ever.
'What were you saying?' asked Ann.
Her companion seemed to have been reflecting during the recent diversion. It had sounded to Ann as though he were about to make some sort of confession, but now he appeared to have thought better of it.
'Nothing,' he said.
'You began to say something about telling me—?'
'No, it was nothing. I was going to say something, but I think I won't.'
'You must have your secrets, I suppose. Well, was it The Sniffer?'
'No. It wasn't.'
'I'm glad.'
'Why?'
A sudden and startling change came over Ann's manner. Until now she had won her Conscience's complete approval by the distant coolness of her attitude. At this question she slipped lamentably. From distant coolness she lapsed into a deplorable sincerity.
'I thought you were going into the most terrible danger,' she said breathlessly. 'I thought he might kill you.'
'You were worried about – me?'
'Well, it's not very nice for a respectable young girl,' said Ann, recovering, 'to be mixed up in shooting affrays. Think of the papers!'
The eager light died out of her companion's eyes.
'Was that all you cared about?' he asked, hollowly.
'What else would there be?'
'Nothing personal in your alarm, eh?'
'Personal?' said Ann, raising her eyebrows.
'Well, I'm glad you did the prudent, sensible thing,' said her companion, speaking, however, without noticeable elation, 'and got away before there was trouble.'
'But there wasn't,' Ann pointed out.
'No,' said her companion. And there was another silence.
Between Ann and her Conscience there now existed a wide cleavage of opinion. Her Conscience kept telling her that she had borne herself under trying conditions in an exemplary manner. She told herself that she was behaving like an idiot. A little more of this sort of thing, and this man would get up and go away for ever.
('And a very good thing, too,' said Conscience. 'A most excellent termination to a very unfortunate entanglement.'
'Says you!' said Ann. And her lips tightened.)
Her companion had taken up the bottle of champagne and was shaking it in an overwrought sort of way – a proceeding which would have shocked and horrified Toddy Malling, had he been present, to the core. But Toddy was still far away, battling nobly where the fray was thickest.
'Of course I was worried about you,' said Ann impulsively. 'I only said that about the papers because— Of course I was worried about you!'
A gleam like sunshine through cloud-wrack illuminated the brooding face opposite her.
'You were?'
'Of course.'
'You mean, you were?'
'Certainly.'
'You really were?'
'Of course I was.'
He leaned forward.
'Shall I tell you something?'
'What?'
'Just this,' said her companion. 'I've—'
He broke off with a sharp exclamation. Something warm and wet had fallen on the back of his head.
'The fault,' said a cheerful voice behind him, 'is entirely mine. I ought never to have attempted to carry soup through a mob like this. Well, all I can say is, I'm sorry. There's just one bright spot – it's jolly good soup.'
Berry turned savagely. A man in love can stand just so much.
'Let's get out of this,' he said between his teeth. 'There's something I want to tell you. We can't talk here.'
'But Mr Malling will be back in a moment,' said Ann. She had a sense of slipping, of struggling for a foothold.
'Who's he?'
'The man I'm with. He's gone to get me something to eat. If I go away, what will he think?'
'If he's anything like the rest of the men here,' said Berry, 'I don't suppose he's capable of thinking.'
He urged her towards the door. They passed out and were in a small anteroom. From somewhere beyond came the sound of music.
Berry slammed the door behind him and turned to her.
'I've something I want to tell you,' he said.
He seemed to Ann to be swelling before her eyes. He looked huge and intimidating. She became conscious of feeling very small and fragile.
'You'll think me mad, of course.'
He was very close to her now, and Conscience, clucking like a hen, was urging her to draw back. She did not draw back.
He took her hand, and as he did so she saw him start, like one who has observed a snake in his path. It was her left hand that he had taken, and what he was staring at was the ring on the third finger. It was a nice ring, of diamonds and platinum, and Lord Biskerton owed a conside
rable sum for it, but there was no admiration in the young man's gaze.
'You're engaged!' he said.
The words were hardly a question. They resembled more nearly an accusation. Ann had a fleeting, but none the less disintegrating, sensation of having been detected in some act unspeakably low and base. She felt that she wanted to explain, and it seemed so impossible to explain.
'Yes,' she said, in a small, meek, penitent voice.
'My God!' said the young man.
'Yes,' said Ann.
'Engaged!'
'Yes.'
The young man breathed heavily.
'I don't care!' he said. 'I just want to tell you—'
The lobby between the supper-room and the Crystal Ballroom of the Hotel Mazarin on the night of a Bassinger dance is perhaps, with the exception of the supper-room, the least suitable spot in the whole of London for the conduct of a tête-à -tête. Even as he spoke, the young man became aware of something male and intrusive at his elbow. This person seemed to be desirous of speech with him. He was tapping him on the arm.
'Excuse me,' he was saying.
And almost at the same instant the door of the supper-room flew open, and Ann, in her turn, found herself forced to recognize that there were more than two people in the world. The whole place had begun to take on a congested air.
'Oh, there you are!' said Toddy Malling.
Toddy was flushed and dishevelled. He seemed at some point in his recent activities to have run his right eye up against something hard, for it was watery and half closed. In his left eye, which was working under its normal power, there was the light of reproach.
'Oh, there you are!' said Toddy Malling. 'I couldn't think where you had got to. I've been looking for you everywhere.'
A sense of being torn in half came upon Ann. She felt as she had sometimes felt when wrenched from some beautiful dream by the ringing of the telephone at her bedside. She looked over her shoulder. The young man who had something which he just wanted to tell her was standing with a dazed expression on his face, gazing down absently at someone whom she recognized as her host, Sir Herbert Bassinger. Sir Herbert appeared to be asking him some question, and the young man was plainly having a little difficulty in giving his mind to it.
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