“It’s sweet of you, and I do appreciate it.”
“Then you’ll let me?”
“Frances dear, if it was really necessary I’d come to you before anyone, indeed I would. But you know I could always get the money from Anna. Adolf settled a small fortune on her, and gives her everything she wants besides. And she’s very generous. But it was dear of you to offer.”
“I forgot about Anna,” said Frances, rather crestfallen. “Still—so long as you can get it somewhere———”
“I’ll get it somewhere, if necessary,” Claudia declared. “So far I’ve managed without borrowing, and I want never to—if I can help it.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Frances admitted.
Claudia laughed—the first time she had done so that evening.
“Not wonderful at all. Just common sense,” she said gaily.
For the remainder of the evening they spoke of other things.
Soon after nine o’clock Claudia rose.
“You don’t mind my going early? I shall see you to-morrow at the office. By the way, doesn’t Ingatestone get back to-morrow?”
“Yes. But I thought I could explain to her about one or two things I’ve done. If you don’t mind.”
“Mind! As if you hadn’t been a perfect angel, to come all this time and help us out. I’m only too grateful to you, my dear.”
“I wish you’d send for me again, if there’s anything I can do. I’ve enjoyed it, you know—and I should be only too glad to help you.”
Claudia thanked her again, kissed her affectionately, and said good-night.
Frances, left alone, felt strangely disconcerted.
(4)
At the flat, Sal was out and Claudia made use of the telephone on her untidy desk to call up the expensive service-flat where the Zienszis stayed when in London.
She asked to speak to her brother-in-law.
In another moment she heard his quiet, rather nasal tones.
“Yes? Is that you, Claudia?”
“Yes. This is confidential, please, Adolf. Do you know anything about a man called Branscombe, and a possible job that he’s suggested for Copper?”
“Yes. I know all about it.”
“Is it sound?”
“As sound as such things ever are, in these days.”
“But you mean there’s a risk in it?”
“There’s risk in everything.”
“I know—but ought we—ought he—to put money into it?”
“I think you can quite safely put a little money into it. They’ve got some very good backing.”
“Oh,” said Claudia, oddly taken aback.
“Anyway, if I may advise you, get Copper to put in for the job, if he hasn’t done so already. It’s well worth while.”
“I see. Thank you, Adolf. I—I suppose it’s something he can tackle?”
“I think he ought to do it very well. If you’ll forgive me—is that all? There’s a man waiting for me downstairs.”
“Yes, that’s all. Thank you very much. Love to Anna.”
“If there’s any difficulty about a small investment of capital,” said the distant voice, “I think we might be able to adjust that. Anna and I both realize what a splendid thing it would be for all of you to have Copper land a good job.”
She heard the click indicating that he had rung off before she could say anything further.
Claudia turned slowly to the door.
So the investment was a sound one: the job desirable: and the money, if necessary, might be found.
A weight off my shoulders, of course, automatically Claudia told herself, in the very phrase that she would have employed to a listener had she had one.
But before she had turned the door-handle she was asking herself doubtfully whether it would not be worse, in the end, for Copper to fail at the job, as she feared that he might, than for him to leave it unattempted.
I must, said Claudia to her invisible listener, I must look at it all round, as dispassionately as I can, and without taking into account what a relief it would be to me personally if I didn’t have to feel that the whole thing depends on me and nobody else.
IV
(1)
Copper went off to the Midlands, and Claudia prepared herself for three days of intensive work. She wanted to get several things accomplished before Saturday, when she had promised to go down to Maurice’s school for a school play. Work was pouring in, and she felt extraordinarily tired. The night after her conversation with Copper she slept badly and woke again to headache.
Sal, eyeing her over the tiny breakfast-table, said nothing and poured out a cup of strong coffee.
Sal’s flat was a small affair of three rooms, a kitchen, and a bath. It looked out onto a broad and quiet square with green trees. She had a daily servant from whom she obtained excellent service. It was a joke amongst the Winsloes that the friend with whom she shared the flat was a myth. None of them had ever seen her there.
“We each go our own way,” said Sal coolly. “That’s why we get on. When Jane’s at home for any length of time, I usually go away. That leaves her free to have anybody she likes staying in my room. But most of the time she’s away—hotels in the winter, and cruises in the summer.”
This singular partnership had persisted for a number of years, and might therefore be accepted as a success.
“That woman makes marvellous coffee,” Claudia admitted gratefully.
“Doesn’t she? Have some more. There’s plenty here.”
“Thank you, I think I will.”
“When do you go down to Eastbourne for Maurice’s show?”
“Friday night, if I can, though I can’t imagine how I shall get through the work. I may have to put off going till Saturday morning, but I don’t want to.”
“Ingatestone gets back to-day, and Frances would stay on till the end of the week.”
“I know. I’ve already arranged it with her. But she can only help downstairs, after all. She can’t do my work for me.”
“Is there much?”
“A good deal.”
They said nothing further.
(2)
In the office Mrs Ingatestone was once more in possession of her desk, her files, and her telephone extension.
She had established Diana at a small convalescent home near Bournemouth, had seen her improve almost in the first twenty-four hours, had defiantly sold out a tiny fragment of her tiny capital to defray expenses, and had spent the previous evening in applying to her head the canary-coloured liquid that produced such remarkable results.
The conviction of having rejuvenated her appearance by this means, almost as much as her ten days’ absence from the routine of the office, helped to exhilarate her. Strongest of all was her determination to show Mrs Winsloe how grateful she was, and how ready to set to work.
Miss Frayle and Miss Collier, after their fashion, welcomed their colleague with their customary affectation of indifference, supplemented by various small attentions.
On her desk she found a bunch of sweet-smelling violets, placed there by Frayle, and a little plant growing in a pot—the offering of Collier.
Young Edie, taking round tea at eleven o’clock, shyly indicated that she had selected the biscuits known to be those preferred by Mrs Ingatestone.
“Miss Frayle’s gone off biscuits altogether,” she said confidentially. “And she won’t touch milk, even in her tea. Only lemon. She says she’s going on a diet.”
“Silly girl,” said Mrs Ingatestone indulgently.
She had before now seen her juniors embark upon diets recommended by the daily press—Woman’s Page—or the friend of a friend, or, in the case of Miss Frayle, a boy whom she had once met in a train and whom she alleged to have been studying dietetics at an American College in the Middle-West. Mrs Ingatestone remembered only too well the resultant paper-bags filled with tomatoes that had invaded the office, and the smell of oranges against which she had so angrily protested. She remembered clearly
the effect of the diet on Frayle’s temper. It was a comfort to remember as well that these distressing experiments seldom endured for more than three days.
Mrs Ingatestone, unmoved by aesthetic considerations, drank her tea and ate her biscuits, listened to Frances Ladislaw explaining various points in connection with her work, and thanked her heartily.
“I really have enjoyed it,” Frances said. “I hope you won’t find a lot of mistakes. The two girls have been so kind about helping me, and telling me anything they could.”
“They’re nice girls, both of them. What I should call thoroughly kind-hearted, in spite of their silly ways. I often think,” said Mrs Ingatestone, “that it doesn’t do to judge by appearances.”
Frances agreed that it didn’t.
“But I must say,” she admitted, “that I like their appearance. I can’t imagine how they find time to take all that trouble and turn themselves out so beautifully.”
“Ah,” said Mrs Ingatestone. “That’s now. Wait till they marry—if they do. You’d be surprised how quickly that type of girl goes to pieces, once she’s got a husband. No more perms or manicures, or bothering about putting on weight. They just let themselves go—slop about in old clothes all the morning at their work, eat sweets and read stories in the afternoon, and worry the poor husband to take them out to the pictures in the evening. Till the baby arrives, of course—that is to say those that make up their minds to have one at all. After that, it’s all U.P. with spending any money or having any more fun. And a woman’s looks soon go, if she never has any fun.
“Well, I mustn’t chatter like this, must I? But I think we’re all straight here now. I’m waiting for Mrs Winsloe to see me.”
Edie came in to fetch the tea things.
“Do you know whether Mrs Winsloe has got the red light burning?”
“It was on just now,” Edie said. “I’ll have another look.”
She presently put her head round the door.
“Light’s just gone off, Mrs Ingatestone.”
“Then I think I’ll go up. She may not,” said Mrs Ingatestone modestly, “have realized that I’m back.”
On the stairs she met Miss Frayle coming down.
“Is Mrs Winsloe disengaged?”
“Yeah. Christ! what a mass of nerves that woman is.”
“Now, now, now—Frayle.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. God help her child, if she goes down to him in this mood. Still, I believe young Maurice is her favourite. He’d be mine too—give me a boy every time.”
“Is it all right to go in now?”
“As right as it ever will be. As a matter of fact she asked for you.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” demanded Mrs Ingatestone, bouncing up to Claudia’s door and then knocking at it very quietly.
(3)
The day’s work had proved heavy.
Claudia decided that she could not spare time to go out for lunch, and ordered some sandwiches and coffee to be sent in.
At three o’clock Anna telephoned.
“Have you heard from Copper yet?”
“There hasn’t been time. He only went up this morning.”
“He might have telegraphed. Darling, aren’t you glad about it?”
“Of course I am. If he gets it, and if it’s all right.”
“Of course he’ll get it, and of course it’s going to be all right. Why shouldn’t it be?”
“Why indeed. Did Adolf tell you I rang him up last night? It was a great relief to hear that he knows about the whole thing, and thinks it’s sound.”
“Yes, he does. Adolf’s always right about that kind of thing. Claudia, are you staying up in town to-night?”
“Yes. I shan’t go back to Arling now till I get back from Eastbourne. I’m going down there on Friday night, if I can possibly get away, for Maurice’s school play. Unluckily I’ve got a frightful rush of work on—so I may have to put off going till Saturday morning. But I don’t want to—he’ll be disappointed; it means I get so much less time with him.”
“Well, look, can you dine with me to-night? Adolf has to go and meet some man somewhere, and I shall be by myself. We could do a play if you liked.”
“I’m too tired for a play. Thank you all the same, Anna dear.”
“Poor darling!” came Anna’s warm, affectionate tones. “I’m so sorry. We won’t go anywhere. Just sit and talk quietly.”
“I’d love to. What time?”
“Any time you like. Half-past seven?”
“Too early. I shan’t be through by then.”
“Oh, Claudia! What a shame. You could call it a day at six o’clock, surely.”
“Not if I’m to get down to Maurice on Friday evening. Could you make it eight-fifteen, Anna?”
“All right. I’ll expect you then. Don’t bother to dress unless you want to.”
“Oh, I keep a change at Sal’s flat. Goodbye, darling. Till this evening.”
“Goodbye, my dear.”
(4)
Anna turned to her husband.
“She sounds frightfully overstrained. She says she’ll dine here quietly with me this evening.”
“Any news of Copper?”
“She hadn’t heard. Of course, he only went up this morning.”
There was a pause, and then Anna burst out:
“Of course, he’d have telegraphed what’s happened if he didn’t know—poor wretch!—that she’s going to prevent him by hook or by crook, from taking up this work. He may not know that he knows it, but he does, all the same.”
Adolf nodded.
He looked sorry.
“You’ve got to remember that Claudia doesn’t know it either,” he suggested. “I’m sure she thinks she’s weighing the whole thing quite impartially. She asked me several questions last night.”
“Hoping all the time that you’d say it was a bad show, and he oughtn’t to have anything to do with it! I know. There’s one thing, Adolf—we’ve got to back Copper up over this. Make him believe in himself, somehow, and if necessary find him the money.”
“All right, sweet. You know I’ll do anything you want.”
“Darling,” said Anna.
Presently he asked:
“Do you suppose Copper’s ever thought of leaving his wife?”
“I know he has. It was years ago. He actually suggested a separation to Claudia, and she wouldn’t hear of it. She said they must think of the children first, and keep a home together for them.”
“Well,” said Adolf quite gravely, “I think he’d have shown more sense if he’d just cleared out.”
“I think so too. But that’s exactly the kind of thing that a man like Copper never does. Everything’s against him—upbringing, and convention, and his own lack of resolution. Copper would have been all right as somebody’s eldest son, before the war, with an income of five or six thousand a year. But nowadays—with everything in the world upside down—he’s not much good. He can’t stand up to it.”
“He’s got to stand up to taking this job,” said Adolf rather grimly, “or he’ll hear a few truths about himself from me.”
“A few truths about Claudia would be more to the point,” cried Anna. “I only hope I shan’t tell them to her myself this evening. No, I won’t—poor darling. She’s tired to death. I could hear it in her voice. And anyway it wouldn’t do any good. Telling Claudia home-truths is like hurling oneself against a glacier. Everything just slides off, and the impact only hurts oneself. That dreadful, calm, dispassionate way Claudia has of listening, and discussing, and admitting everything—all so fair, and analytical, and so utterly, utterly false! Oh, Adolf! don’t let me talk like this. I do love her—I used to admire her so, and think her so wonderful, when we were little.”
“Sure,” said Adolf. “You love her. You wouldn’t be working yourself up like this if you didn’t. There’s a great deal that’s very attractive about Claudia.”
“There is, isn’t there? I wish she’d married s
ome man much stronger than herself.”
“It might have taken some time to find one,” remarked Adolf. “Don’t you think now you’d better keep quiet and let me ring down and tell them to send you up some tea or a cocktail or something?”
“I’ve got my masseuse coming at four. That’ll rest me. I’ll have a drink or something afterwards. Shall you be back quite early this evening?”
“I shall be through with talking business to Maclean by nine. He’s leaving London on the ten o’clock train. I can go to the club and get some Bridge, or come right back here. Whichever you’d rather.”
“I think I’d like to have her to myself. Somehow I’ve got to make Claudia see that Copper’s got to take this job, even if it means chucking up Arling and starting somewhere else.”
Adolf emitted a low whistle.
“Sell Arling? That’d be a bit hard on her, I must say.”
“They may not have to. I don’t know. I only know that Claudia is not going to persuade me, whatever she may do to herself, that there’s any reason why that wretched husband of hers shouldn’t take his chance of regaining some self-respect at last.”
(5)
Now, I’m going to be nice, and behave really well, Anna told herself, as her maid held open the door of the bedroom for her and she went down the passage and into the elaborately modern sitting-room of the flat.
It held a shiny black glass octagonal table, some chromium-plated pieces of furniture that included a radio-gramophone, a number of turquoise-blue and purple cushions, and a single tall, square vase of opalescent glass containing a branch of shell-flowers.
The two enormous windows were curtained in an ostentatiously simple coarse white net.
Above the electric fire, flush to the wall, was a large diamond-shaped clock. The hands were slender oxidized daisies. There were no numerals; only little purple dots in the appropriate places. This room, which also served as dining-room, was rather a difficult one to live up to, Anna always felt.
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