Looking more innocent than ever, Kitty said that she had often heard of Miss Marr, and had longed to meet her. Chloe said that of course she had seen Miss Kelso on the stage, and had always liked her work.

  ‘You remember her in Fiddle strings?’ cried Kelly, shaker in hand. ‘You were wonderful in that, Kitty. I always say that was your best performance. That wonderful scene in the Third Act—you remember it, Chloe?—where she lay dead on the sofa, with a bunch of wild flowers on her breast, and I tried to play my violin to her, but it was no good, my hands dropped to my sides, and then I began to speak—slowly at first, the words torn out of me, and then faster and faster, letting the audience see that it was her whom I had always loved.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Hamlet, aren’t you, darling?’ said Kitty. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted a fiddle for that.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Kelly. ‘You know the play I mean, Chloe. My father had died, and I suspected that he had been murdered, and I used to wander about the country, playing my violin and pretending to be mad’—he tapped his head, either to indicate madness or to help his memory— ‘I ought to remember, I was the author, at least I wrote it with that fellow—what the devil’s his name?——’

  ‘William Shakespeare,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Was it Shakespeare?’ said Kelly doubtfully. He shook his head. ‘No, no, it was a modern play——’

  ‘You might have been playing Shakespeare in modern dress,’ suggested Chloe. ‘Had you got a bicycle?’

  ‘Anyway, darling,’ said Kitty, ‘I’ve never played with you in any sort of dress, on or off a bicycle.’

  ‘Why should I have had a bicycle, sweetheart?’ asked Kelly, in the patient voice of a good-tempered governess.

  ‘Getting about the country,’ said Chloe cheerfully. ‘Is that my drink?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He gave it to her. ‘I remember I did wheel a bicycle on to the stage once, but that was a different play. Young Man’s Fancy, you remember it? I wrote it one week-end with—Trubshaw, was it? It set the scene, I thought—this young man, in love with—now who was the girl? Not you, Kitty, this would be before your time —madly in love with her, and he’d ridden over on his bicycle, ten miles, it placed him at once, you see, his love and his poverty—long dusty ride—no car—one knew all about him, as soon as he came on to the stage.’

  ‘They’d know that anyhow, darling,’ said Chloe. ‘They’d say “Coo! it’s Wilson Kelly!” Even without the bicycle.’

  ‘Why are we talking about bicycles?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Chloe.

  There were two distinctive features about the plays in which Wilson Kelly appeared; features which distinguished them, not from each other, but from the plays in which Wilson Kelly did not appear. The first was that Wilson Kelly was always billed as part-author; the second was that at some time in the unfolding of the drama he was either urged by another character, or felt a sudden private need, to play Hoffmann’s Barcarolle on the violin. The connexion between these two features is fairly clear. The author had not envisaged a violin-solo, and had made little preparation for it; the actor, therefore, with his greater experience, felt it necessary to collaborate. Nobody with Wilson Kelly’s appreciation of stagecraft would be satisfied with the bare request (‘Let’s have a tune, dad’) made of one who had hitherto given no evidence of a love of music or the possession of a musical instrument; a violin solo must be introduced more gradually and more subtly than that. A Shakespeare, writing alone, may startle us with the sudden stage direction ‘Exit pursued by a bear’; but ‘The Winter’s Tale by William Shakespeare and Wilson Kelly’ would have made it clear in an earlier scene that a particular bear was in the neighbourhood. So, too, would it have shrunk from an unheralded ‘Enter Leontes with violin’. ‘Re-enter Leontes with violin’, after the usual modest disclaimers, was much more convincing.

  There was, of course, no insistence by the author (or authors) that any particular piece should be played. The character whom Wilson Kelly was impersonating (or, as some thought, who was impersonating Wilson Kelly) winged his way down the Groves of Music, and lighted carelessly upon—yesterday this, to-morrow that—but, as it happened, to-day upon, let me see, ah, yes! the Barcarolle. It was not the only piece which Wilson Kelly could play, but it was probably the only piece which he could still play correctly.

  That an actor who could play the violin should feel that it was a pity to waste a ready-made audience was natural enough. What made Kelly’s performance slightly uncanny was his apparent conviction on each occasion that nothing like this had ever happened to an audience before. He was superbly unselfconscious about violins; whereas his friends in his company blushed at the first mention of the word. In appearance he was impressively dark and sinister, with a long sharp nose which was undesirable on its own merits, but caused no comment in such a well-known face as Wilson Kelly’s.

  He had advanced to the door to greet Everard and induct him to the drinks; forgetting, perhaps, that Everard was his host and had seen him to his room half an hour before. Chloe and Kitty giggled at each other, and moved away from the table.

  ‘I’d forgotten that he was so heavenly,’ murmured Chloe. ‘Weren’t you ever in a play with him?’

  ‘Never. But he did once ask me to share his flat.’

  ‘Why did you refuse, darling? No lift?’

  Kitty, who was drinking, gave a sudden snort of laughter, said ‘Pardon, Mrs Hopkins,’ and felt for her handkerchief.

  ‘You really want a towel,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Listen, darling,’ said Kitty firmly. ‘If this is to be a nice party, I mustn’t get the giggles. So stop it.’

  They went back to the others.

  At dinner Everard said quietly to Chloe, ‘I’ve been asked to go to South America.’

  ‘Not by the police, darling?’

  He smiled at her and said, ‘No. A Parliamentary trade commission.’

  ‘Is that much in your line, Everard?’

  ‘Not much. But you want one or two extras who can wear an eyeglass, and make love to influential people’s wives—the British milord tradition.’

  ‘Darling, don’t you dare to make love to hot-blooded Brazilians. I won’t have it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not certain that I shall go yet.’

  ‘How long would it be, sweetie? I can’t spare you for long.’

  ‘Three months, anyway. We have a look round the States first. It would be a long time away from you, Chloe. Heaven knows what you’d be up to.’

  ‘Nothing that I should be afraid of telling you.’

  ‘Let’s talk of it afterwards. Your neighbour has something urgent to communicate.’

  She turned to a waiting Kelly.

  ‘I forget if you know Bangkok well?’ he began.

  ‘Not really well,’ said Chloe. ‘I generally go to Bognor.’

  ‘I was just telling Mrs Donnisthorne of an amusing experience I had there.’

  ‘How did it go? I mean, was she amused?’

  Kelly laughed suddenly, and in laughing became quite attractive.

  ‘You’re just the same, Chloe. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Well, darling, I don’t take the end of other people’s conversations. What were you doing at Bangkok?’

  ‘Hadn’t you heard? My Tour of Australia and the Far East?’ Just so might Napoleon have said ‘Hadn’t you heard that I’d gone in for soldiering?’

  ‘The talk of London, sweetie. Was it a great success?’

  ‘Financially, so-so. Conditions are very difficult out there. Of course I had a guarantee. But artistically and socially it was a real triumph. Politically, too—I’ve been making a report to the authorities—they seem to be delighted. One can do a good deal, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you could, Wil.’

  ‘I must have made something like thirty speeches— apart, of course, from those the audience insisted on after each performance—playing on the theme of Empire, the Motherland, ties of blood, what do they know of England. It was the most amazing sight, those spellbound audiences. It was a revelation to me. One was very proud to do something in one’s humble way for one’s country.’

  ‘Darling, I want you to do something for me—if you’re not too grand now.’

  Kelly said quietly and unaffectedly, ‘You know quite well, my dear, that you have only to ask.’

  ‘It’s just that I have a little friend at the Academy, quick, bright, pretty, as keen as can be. I’m not asking you to make her your leading lady, or even to let her understudy the girl who says “Your car is here, madam”; but will you come and have a drink with me, and meet her? She’ll get a tremendous kick out of it, and it will be a real encouragement to her. You needn’t think about her again. She’ll do all that.’

  ‘My dear, of course!’ He whipped out a pocket diary, and poised a gold pencil over it. He didn’t ask the company to stop eating and watch him make a note in his diary; he merely gave the impression that if it did, he would be supremely unconscious of the fact. ‘What day shall we say? I could manage Friday.’ He added doubtfully, ‘I think,’ in case he had forgotten an invitation from the Secretary of State for the Dominions.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring,’ said Chloe. ‘Is that my pencil?’

  ‘Well, of course it is, darling!’ He had come across it that morning when searching for the key of his dressing-case, and his voice was reproachful. ‘It never leaves me.’

  It left him now for a moment while she twisted it about and read ‘Love from Chloe’ in her own writing. How many years ago? He sighed sentimentally, indicating that he was ready for her to revive his tender memories of those days. . . . She gave the pencil back to him.

  ‘How’s Helen?’ she said brightly.

  Wilson Kelly issued a cold but apparently favourable bulletin on the health of his wife.

  4

  Having bathed in the sea, Everard, Chloe, Kitty and a young man called Julian-something lay on the beach, bathing in the sun. Kitty had taken off the top of her two-piece (‘Shut your eyes a moment, gents’) and lay face downwards. It was her first hot day, she was covered with oil and was hoping for the best. Julian, who had been almost unnecessarily helpful with the oil, lay face downwards beside her in a pair of trunks. Chloe, in a white one-piece, a towel fallen across her knees, lay on her back, her face in the shade of a large umbrella, her eyes closed. Everard, in shirt and trousers, leaning on one elbow, let sand run between his fingers, and looked at Chloe.

  Julian-something thought: She’s the old man’s, I suppose, one can’t butt in. Wonder if she’s expensive. Toby says he’s going to Brazil for six months. Hell, she’s not going to give a figure like that a six months’ holiday. There’s probably a waiting-list a mile long. Well, no harm in trying. This fat girl’s all right. One could have a lot of fun with her. What about those twins she was talking about? Nine years old! Popping up on bicycles. Oh, no, damn it . . .

  Kitty thought: The older I get, the more bloody I think men are. I mean they’re so bloody single-minded. They ought just to be kept for the night. I’d sooner spend a day with Chloe than with any man in the world. Funny about her. She likes men, and doesn’t want to marry them, and I hate them and can’t live without them. I wonder if she would marry Everard. Poor darling, if only that bitch of a woman—— Look at her now with her towel over her knees. My God, what a figure, but even she knows that knees are no good. Except for babies. Oh, please God, see that my babies aren’t being run over to-day, and let me have a letter from them to-morrow, not that it’s in the least likely, so I shan’t blame you, but they did go on about the address and giggle when I told them, but it wouldn’t get here in time, so it might be a telegram. Fancy Wil turning up again! Doesn’t Everard know, or wasn’t it true, or what? I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m going to sleep . . .

  Everard thought: Three months, say four months there and back. And on the first day out I get a wireless saying that she’s broken her neck, or, more likely, somebody’s broken it for her. I have to go on, too late for the funeral anyway, noblesse oblige and all that. ‘Much sympathy will be expressed for Sir Everard Hale, in the sudden tragic loss of his wife.’ Tight probably. And in four months I’m back, and—give it six months for decency, two months later we’re married. January. Cyprus? Oh, my God, why will nothing ever happen as one wants it to? I suppose if it did, every single one of us would fall down dead. Plenty of wives who want Chloe dead. I think I’ve been right about her, keeping in the background, but always there. Never being jealous—no, always being jealous, but never showing it. The more there are to be jealous of, the less there is to be jealous about—I’m glad I saw that. And gave her more and more lovers. Are they lovers? Not they. She’s untouchable. The virgin goddess. Nobody else knows it, it’s my secret. Is it true? I don’t know, I don’t care, I’m looking at her, she’s mine while I can look at her . . .

  Chloe opened lazy eyes, gave him a little friendly smile, formed her lovely mouth into the ghost of a kiss, and closed her eyes again . . . Everard lit a cigar. There was always that.

  Chapter Seven

  1

  Artists, in whatever medium, are traditionally assumed to be unworldly creatures. Claudia suited her temperament to the supposed requirements of her calling; it was the least she could do in preparation for it. She had, of course, as much to learn in this branch of her trade as in all the others. She did not know that actresses could eat more than any male manual worker, and habitually did; she did not know that they had, and had to have, the virtues of the prize schoolgirl: tidiness, method, punctuality and perseverance; her own virtues, in fact, which she had hoped to leave with Henry in Hampshire. She saw the profession as composed of careless, untidy, happy-go-lucky creatures, existing on the lightest possible meals at the most casual possible times. She lived, in consequence, in some discomfort of body, but in great comfort of soul, convinced that so Mrs Siddons had lived. Perhaps she had made the mistake of thinking that acting was an art.

  Claude, who was undoubtedly practising an art, had no wish to be anything but himself. He could not understand why, if you liked painting, you wanted to grow an orange-coloured beard; nor why (alternatively, for he was open-minded about it), if you liked growing an orange-coloured beard, you wanted to paint. So he remained what he had always been: immaculately neat, short-haired and methodical: looking as if he had stepped from a band-box, or, more probably, from a bank.

  In fact, he was, at this moment, engaged with those columns of pounds, shillings and pence which are the lifeblood of men in banks. The Great Borotra Joke had been accepted, but not yet paid for. On the credit side one might put down—what? Say ten guineas. Well, leave that for the moment, and consider the debit side. He wrote at the head of the page ‘Evening with Chloe’, and drew, for the hundredth time, her lovely head, and then, as an afterthought,

  2 dinners £150

  Champagne 110

  Cocktails 60

  Coffee 20

  Waiter 60

  Total £300

  Add, to be on the safe side, five shillings to the dinners, four shillings to the champagne, and a shilling to the cocktails, and you had £3 10s. It could hardly be more.

  Next:

  Play (or film) and programme (max.)

  (Might be less. Where shall we go?) £156

  2 suppers (min.) 170

  Champagne (again?) 110

  Coffee 202

  suppers (max.) 220?

  Damn. This is getting difficult. Say £6 for dinner and supper. That’s £7 5 s. 6d. Taxis: Me to Her, Us to Dinner, Dinner to Play, Play to Supper, Supper to Her, and I can walk home if necessary. Ten bob for the first four (max.) and five bob for the last, because of the time. All right, say £8 altogether. Easy if I get the ten guineas.

  But shall I?

  He drew Chloe full-face, and scrawled it out, nothing like her. It was that child-like certainty of her beauty which was so characteristic; that ‘Here I am, and wasn’t it worth waiting for?’—a sort of (but it was blasphemy to think such a word of a goddess), a sort of cockiness, which was, in some magic way, so unaggressive as to be almost humility, as if she were dressing up and playing the Princess, and laughing at herself inside. No, that wasn’t right—oh, hell, suppose he only got six guineas? Well, we might have cocktails and caviare sandwiches instead of dinner, because of going to a very early play and having supper afterwards. We could do that for a pound, and that would make six altogether. Damn it, I must get six guineas, it’s absolute black-and-white slave traffic if I don’t.

  All right, then, he could afford it. What he couldn’t afford was to wait until he got the money, for then it would be August, and Chloe, for certain, out of London. That didn’t matter, he could, borrow from himself; there was enough money in the bank to keep him until dividends were due in December. Now that he was certain of being able to repay, he could take six guineas out. Six guineas and Chloe out.

  He put down his pencil and walked to the telephone. . . . No. Number engaged, will you hold on, Miss Marr is out, Miss Marr is in her bath, Miss Marr will be in directly, Miss Marr will be out directly, will you leave a message—No! That might do for the others, but not for Claude Lancing. Not again. A letter, and leave the ringing up to her.

  ‘Darling. You didn’t answer my last letter telling you how happy I was at school, but since then I have had three letters from other people, so I don’t mind. Do you remember coming here a year or two ago and seeing a so-called joke about a tennis player called something? It has just been accepted. There was once a man who took a joke round to an editor, and got half a crown for it, and he came back a little later, and said reproachfully, “That was a bad half-crown you gave me”, and the editor said, “Well, it was a bad joke”. Forgetting about him, and looking on the bright side, couldn’t we celebrate my first earnings together by going out one night? Do, darling, thus proving that you take an interest in my career. Otherwise I shall become a house-painter, and our paths will lie on different levels. Even so I shall wave to you when I can from scaffolding, and remain your elevated but always devoted Claude.’