Yours sincerely,

  Henrietta St. Ives

  C/o George Chater Esq.,

  Holmdene,

  Woking.

  Well, old girl, I said I’d write, so I am; because I don’t want you to think that I’ve let you down. I’m staying with old George for a few days, playing golf. I don’t know if I told you about him, he lives down at Woking. He beat me this morning 3 and 2 but I pipped him in the afternoon, he was slicing all his drives. He’s got a new Bentley, she does 80 without noticing it. How are you? Aunt Essie’s writing to you, at least she said she was. It’s been very hot lately so I expect you’ve been having it very hot. It’s hotter where you are I expect. George Chater said he’d been to Biarritz once and it was damned hot, but that was before the war. I hope you’re keeping fit, I had a bit of indigestion last week but it passed off. I met that young Lancing who I met in your flat, and he’s coming to have a bite at the club when I get back and then I’m going to Wales. Well I think that’s all as the drinks are just coming in, but I said I’d write so I have. Let’s have a line, old girl, when you’re not too busy, there’s a kid in the house who collects stamps, old George’s half nevew, his father married twice and this is his half nevew. Love and kisses and all that, cheerio and let me know as soon as you’re back and we’ll see what we can do.

  Percy

  The Manor House,

  Much Hadingham.

  My Dear Chloe,

  I must thank you again for our happy day in London— no, I mean my happy day with you, for it cannot have been the delightful interlude for yourself that you made it for me. All the lovely things arrived together this morning, and what John Clayden, our postman, thought as he carried them up on his bicycle, I don’t know, but he smiled as cheerily as ever, and I gave him a sixpence for his little girl, such a pretty even-tempered child, and a favourite of mine, but you can’t spoil her luckily. So then I locked my door and dressed myself up, and—well, I wonder. I wish you had been here. It’s Esmeralda, as you said, but she has been dead so long, I wonder if I am wise to resurrect her— as I know now I was wrong to let her die. Of course it is not she who has come to life in my mirror, but her grandmother, a well-preserved old lady with rather a Spanish taste in dress. I don’t know what Alfred will think. But I shall dress myself up privately every day, and get myself used to this dashing Señora, and then perhaps I shall be able to carry her off. Oh, Chloe, my dear, you have given me a very exciting game to play, and I thought that I was done with exciting games.

  What would make it perfect would be if you came down to me for that week-end—shall we say if you have nowhere else to go, and hate the idea of staying in London? I know, of course, my dear, that Alfred and I and our funny little lives in our funny little village are just things you glimpse out of a carriage window as the train goes by, and smile at, and forget; but if you did pull the communication-cord to see what happened (as you must often have wanted to) we would do our best to entertain you until the train went on again. But without that you have given us much happiness, and Alfred never stops telling me of his afternoon at Hampton Court.

  Yours affectionately,

  Esmeralda Walsh

  Green Room Club, W.C.2.

  Chloe, my darling, I am the bearer of grievous tidings. My poor, dear wife passed away suddenly two nights ago as the result of an accidental fall. Though we had not lived together for some years, the shock of her death is none the less crushing. My mind to-day goes back sadly to those earlier triumphs which we shared—I need only mention Fiddle and I, The Green Cockade and Whither Do you Wander. She was not, it must be admitted, a great actress, but she was a great trouper, a devoted comrade, and a constant inspiration, and it would be churlish not to admit that much of my success has been owed to her. The Daily Telegraph put this very well in a cutting which I enclose, and there are generous tributes in most of the other papers, several of them referring in a kindly way to the new romantic comedy which I am just putting into rehearsal. I have, of course, made it clear in a letter to the Press that, as always in the profession, personal feelings cannot be allowed to weigh against public duty, and we shall be opening at Culverhampton on the 19th of September as announced . . .

  The Vicarage,

  Much Hadingham.

  My dear chloe (you see how naturally it comes to me now!)—I have been thinking over what you said at Hampton Court, and I wish I could give you an answer to your problem. But the older I get, the less certainty I have about life, and of death I know only this: that it is the door which opens to us all Beauty and all Knowledge.

  God has given you beauty, my dear, the most precious of all gifts; and you are right to guard it as if it were (which, indeed, it is) a sacred lamp in a world which holds so much that is ugly. I do not think that you would make a good charwoman, nor a good secretary of a Housing Committee, nor a good factory girl. Nor do I think that any of these by reason of her following is more to be praised than you. Earning a living is not the highest form of living; it is not what we were put into the world for; it is but a worldly means to a Divine end, the end being the development of God’s spirit within us. And since that spirit is enlarged by the contemplation of beauty, a truly beautiful woman fulfils her destiny, unconsciously as it were, by becoming an inspiration to others.

  But her responsibility does not end there. Beauty in a woman means power, and power is a terrible weapon, a weapon with which no one is safe who does not surrender himself to God. I think that your whole duty—to yourself, to your world, to your God—is to exercise that power beneficently. Throughout your years of glory you will be breaking many hearts; see to it that you do not break souls. If there are many who will say: ‘For to see her was to love her, love but her, and love for ever,’ let them also be able to say, ‘To love her was a spiritual education.’ Let it be in the noblest sense of the word better for them to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

  Am I wasting your time? You are holiday-making, I suppose, and this letter will be sent on to you. I see you lying in the sun, reading it; will you smile to find that I took you so seriously? For perhaps you were just being kind to an elderly friend in the Church, giving him in your gracious way a theological problem to solve, as you would give another man a cross-word puzzle, or listen to a third man’s domestic troubles. Even so, my dear Chloe, I shall not have wasted my time. It is a clergyman’s business, I have discovered, to preach to those whose thoughts are eager to be elsewhere. As a friend of mine said: ‘I expect watches to be looked at when I’m in the pulpit. But,’ he added, ‘not shaken and held to the ear.’ . . .

  R.M.S. ‘Aquitania.’

  My Dear One,

  I believe that the right way to begin a letter in mid-ocean is to say, ‘Well, here I am,’ which is why I don’t say it. We are an odd crowd, with most of whom I have a nodding acquaintance in the House. My only blood-brother is Sid Rowley, an ex-railway porter Labour Member, with a face like an interested monkey, an uninhibited laugh, a passion for boiled sweets, and a firm belief in a revolution in which he has promised to liquidate me. Meanwhile we talk the same language, which means that I can call him a damned fool, and he can call me a bloody one, without noticing it. I was in the Bar yesterday evening, and he came and leant affectionately against me, picked up and sipped the sherry which I had ordered for myself, said, ‘Ah, it’s the’74, I fancy, James,’ drank it, and said, ‘No, no, what am I thinking of, 73 and an ’arf.’ He then handed me back the empty glass, saying, ‘Now then, old man, it’s your turn to stand me one.’ Well, I like him.

  I also like you, my darling. I wish I knew you better. Have you ever been in love? Do you know at all what it means? Sometimes I think of you as a very innocent, very sophisticated child, who knows it all but doesn’t understand a word of it. You may smile and say, ‘Just because I don’t fall in love with you, darling, it doesn’t mean that I can’t fall in love with anybody.’ Of course it doesn’t, and it would be the maddest egotism to think so. But without being egotistic it is possible to know from a man’s attitude to your dog, or horse or child or garden, however unattractive these may be, whether or not he is fond of dogs, and horses and children, or interested in gardens. You are interested in men, but—you aren’t fond of them? You have the air of loving, but—you can’t love? Outwardly you are so reckless and inwardly so reserved—my darling, what is your secret? . . .

  17 South Audley Mansions,

  W.1.

  Dear Miss Marr,

  I am sending on the letters in a big envelope as you said and Lord Sheppey rang up to ask for your address and I said you hadn’t left one and no letters were being sent on. Yours truly—Ellen Maddick

  2

  These letters, and more letters like them, and letters from other people, and more letters like them, flowed in on Chloe. Some of the writers neither wished nor expected an answer; some wished, but did not expect. But there were some who calculated the earliest day on which it was possible for an answer to come, and from that day lived only from post to post.

  Here is Chloe in reply.

  One telegram:

  My love and all my sympathetic understanding, Chloe.

  One letter:

  My Dearest Esmeralda,

  Of course I am coming—try and stop me. Ought I to know when it is? Is it fixed like Christmas, movable like Easter, or different for each village like Vicars? I shall be very quiet and neat and respectful, I think I’ll carry your prayer-book and say, ‘Desearia, mi Señora, una manta sobre las rodillas?’ That means, ‘Would the gracious lady require a hassock for her knees?’—and you may think that a woman who can throw off the Spanish for hassock so carelessly could throw off anything—like a strip-tease dancer—but the truth is, darling, and I am nothing if not truthful sometimes, that I am writing this at full length on the Côte des Basques, and there is a very attentive Basque sans Coat (and most other things) sun-bathing next to me, and I wanted to take his mind off all he normally thinks about. He is now holding forth on the iniquities of the Spanish Church, which is at least a change. All the men here have one-way minds, and most of the women have two-way figures—coming and going—but some of the children are adorable, and so is the weather and the scenery, and all the things that help to fill up a picture-postcard. Hot, but I like it hot.

  Darling, we are running down on the Spanish Church, and my boy friend wants a drink. Let me know the date as soon as possible. I shall be leaving here on the 26th and I am going to Scotland on the 2nd for a week, but I could cancel that if necessary, it isn’t important. And of course I could leave before the 26th if the Harvest is early this year. So hurry, hurry, hurry and tell me when. And give my love to Alfred and thank him for his so wise, so kind, letter. I can’t answer it here, he will guess why, but I’ll be seeing him soon.

  Now for that drink.

  Your loving

  Chloe

  The Aquitania reached New York, and Everard saw Sid Rowley safely into his first dinner jacket. Claude sidestepped his invitation to White’s, and Percy went off to Wales. Aunt Essie told the Vicar of Much Hadingham that Chloe was coming to them for the Harvest Festival, and the Vicar hurled his hat across the lawn in delight. Wilson Kelly, wearing a black armlet of terrifying intensity, said ‘No, no, darling, now watch me’ to Claudia, and became in an instant a sulky gypsy girl with an imaginary tambourine. Barnaby, after an agony of indecision, found a formula for Any More Questions which kept him hard at work, but left his mind free to think of Chloe.

  But what Chloe did, what Chloe thought of, none of them knew.

  Chapter Nine

  1

  Silvie was getting married in the autumn. Mrs Willoughby Prance, who managed the Juvenile Department and was herself responsible for Prosser’s Elementary Reader, The Nursery Mapmaker, and The Child’s Introduction to Life, had been elected chairwoman of the committee which was to organize Miss Silver’s wedding-present. Mrs Prance combined the amplitude of an allegorical mother with the pince-nez of a high-school teacher and the Eton crop and cigarette-holder of a girl very much about town. Barnaby never felt quite at ease with her. Within a week of his coming into the office she had asked him to call her Prance, which, on any workable Victorian analogy, was a revelation of her affections demanding the chivalrous exchange, ‘Won’t you call me Rush?’ She did. Presumably he was now licensed to smack her on some part of the back—but which? It was all a little difficult.

  Prance called her committee together, and said in her business-like way that the first thing was to collect the money, and when that was done they would decide what to buy with it. It was no good wrangling about what make of car to give Silver and then finding they had just enough for a handkerchief case. She suggested that everybody be asked for a shilling, five shillings from heads of departments, and ten shillings from directors. No compulsion, nobody need give anything, probably some of them wouldn’t feel they could afford it, but they all liked Silver, and she hoped there’d be a good rally. ‘What’s that, Fossett? Well, of course you can. That’s why I said a shilling, so that any one who wants to give her a personal present can still subscribe to the general one. What’s that, Luker? No, that’s too difficult, must keep it simple—you agree, Wilkinson? Good, then we’ll just put it to the vote, those in favour—carried—well, I must get on with my work, pass the word along, what’s that, Fossett? Oh, tell ’em to bring it to me, if you can trust me, ha—ha!’ She put another cigarette in her holder, and flicked a lighter at it. ‘Same time next week, and see how much we’ve got. Cheerio.’

  The committee drifted out, disappointed that so little time had been wasted. Rattling good fellows, all of ’em, thought Mrs Prance to herself, and settled down to work, feeling both popular and efficient. ‘Silly old bitch,’ said Miss Fossett to Mr Luker, on the other side of the door. ‘Or what?’ said Mr Luker darkly.

  Silvie (Stainer was glad to hear) was not leaving Prosser’s; not yet.

  ‘Not till I have a baby, Mr Stainer, if that will be all right.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘Well, it will depend on Humby.’

  ‘These things do, of course.’

  Silvie gave her happy laugh, and said, I didn’t mean that, I meant when he’s making enough for the two of us.’

  ‘The three of you, don’t you mean?’

  Silvie laughed again and said, ‘Well, it might be four, Mr Stainer, if I had twins.’

  ‘All right, call it twins. But don’t go having ’em till you’re ready for ’em.’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Stainer!’ said Silvie, almost shocked. ‘As if Humby would!’ But whether her confidence rested on the fact that he was just Humby, or that he was so good at wire puzzles, was not clear to Stainer.

  The committee met again and decided on a tea-service. Barnaby, feeling that his five shillings did not express all the happiness which he wished for Silvie, added six pairs of silk stockings and hoped that they were the right size and colour.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ cried Silvie, ‘they’re exactly right. Oh, Mr Rush, it is kind of you.’

  ‘Well, I like seeing them on you,’ said Barnaby. ‘How many people have told you that you have the best legs in the publishing world?’

  Sitting on his desk she held out the best legs in the publishing world, and smiled at them.

  ‘Humby ever noticed them?’

  She gave him a look which recognized his humour.

  ‘First thing Humby said to me after we’d been introduced was to ask me if I’d gone up in the lift from South Ken about four o’clock one Sunday round about two months ago, because he’d seen a pair of legs going up and there couldn’t be two pairs in the world, and really, Mr Rush, I had, but I don’t say it was me, of course.’

  ‘Nice to think it was.’

  ‘Soon as we got engaged, we went to South Ken, and I got in the lift, and Humby stayed on the platform as if he was taking the next train, and I stood next the gate, and as soon as he heard the lift starting, Humby came running up, and there it was just like the other time, and he says he knows it was me. So perhaps it was. Wasn’t it funny?’ She smiled happily at him and added, ‘Legs get Humby down. I mean ugly ones. That’s why it was, I expect, I mean him noticing like that.’

  But three days later, when she brought in his tea, she had no smile for him.

  ‘Hallo, Silvie, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Rush.’

  ‘You’ve been crying.’

  She shook her head, and shook the tears out of her eyes, and said, ‘I’m just so silly, I can’t stop unless I think of something else, and as soon as I stop working, it sort of comes again. I’m sorry, Mr Rush.’

  ‘Is it Humby?’

  She nodded, and burst out, ‘He’s got appendicitis— Oh; Mr Rush!’ and gave way utterly.

  Barnaby’s relieved laugh shocked her into instant control of herself. She looked wonderingly at him.

  ‘Is that all?’ said Barnaby. ‘Good heavens, what’s appendicitis? I thought he’d run away with a Russian Princess or something. I thought you’d quarrelled, and parted for ever.’

  ‘Quarrelled? Me and Humby?’

  ‘Well, it was silly of me, but that’s what I thought. Appendicitis? Pooh, nothing!’

  ‘Have you had yours out?’

  ‘Again and again. No, that’s not true, but I’ve certainly had it out once. A very sensible thing to do just before getting married. Like having your hair cut.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Rush, is it really like that? I can’t help being frightened, I know it’s silly.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘To-morrow morning. He went in this afternoon. St George’s. Mr Stainer let me go with him. That’s why I’m so late with the tea.’