The Vicar was leaning over the deck-rail in the early morning sunlight, as the islands rose one by one from the sea—what was her name? Not Chloe . . . She was neither dark nor fair, but between, and she had violet eyes —no, that was Chloe—and he held her hand, and he thought, ‘Now I have held her hand, I shall have to ask her to marry me,’ because in those days—

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short, I didn’t do anything. The port was just going round again, and a feller called Carruthers was telling us a dam funny story—get me to tell you that another time, dam funny story it was about a feller he knew in the F.M.S. who was calling on the wife of a feller—oh, well, perhaps not, I was forgetting for the moment—funny thing, I was telling this story only the other day to a woman I know, and as luck would have it, I just pulled myself up in time, and I said, “Look here, old girl, I can’t tell you, but if you like to remind me to tell your husband next time I see him, and he cares to pass it on to you, that’s his look-out.” Well, to get back to what I was saying, I don’t know how it strikes you, but it always seems to me a damned uncivil thing to use another fellow’s telephone for a trunk-call. But passing all that for the moment——’

  The Vicar was thirty. No, then he would have been in orders. Twenty-five, or was that too young? She must be nearly thirty herself. Very well, then, he’s thirty-two, and in the Army . . . just going into Parliament . . . his first play just coming on . . . just succeeded to the title, Lord Winghampton . . . Oh, to be young again! No, no, he was happy to be old. It was less disturbing to be old . . .

  ‘Well, one way and another, time went on, and by the time we’d joined the ladies, and had a round or two, and Chater had shown us a Dutch bed his Missis had picked up—damned unpatriotic, I call it, dam strange thing to do, but that’s the Bolshy side of her coming out—well, what with one thing and another——’

  The Vicar, one hand in his pocket, one hand twisting the stem of his empty glass, stretched at full length in his chair, smiled happily at the ceiling.

  5

  In the drawing-room Miss Walsh stitched and said:

  ‘I always wonder who Percy will marry. I try to see her in my mind, but it’s difficult. Have you known him long?’

  ‘It seems a long time.’

  ‘Yes, it would do that. That is a very beautiful dress you’re wearing.’

  ‘I wondered if I was overdoing it in such a quiet, happy house, in such a quiet, happy country. I didn’t really mean to wear it, but then I suddenly felt I’d like you to see it.’

  ‘I’m very glad you did, my dear. I hope Maggie was helpful. Or shall I say, not unhelpful.’

  ‘Oh, very, thank you.’

  ‘I expect you usually bring your own maid.’

  ‘Yes, but she isn’t called Suzette. She is a dear old thing called Ellen, and has been with me for some years. We both get a little tired of each other at times, but we manage to make it up.’

  ‘Maggie is only a country girl, of course, but she’s clever with her fingers, and is very teachable. Do you like the country?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How nice to hear somebody say that. “No” is such a difficult single word for the modern generation, which always has to excuse it with an “actually” or an “as a matter of fact”.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m not quite the modern generation.’

  Miss Walsh looked at her, and said, ‘I don’t think you’re any generation, my dear.’ She went on with her work again. ‘Why don’t you like the country?’

  ‘It makes me unhappy. I feel that I’m missing something.’

  ‘Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, missing so much and so much?’ quoted Miss Walsh to herself.

  ‘I shouldn’t do that,’ smiled Chloe. ‘Not unless we were going to Church. I should always wear the right things. That’s what I mean by missing. There are other things than the right things, but I’m too busy to think about them in London. In the country there is more time to think, and I feel that I want something which I’m not getting.’

  ‘Would you like to go to church to-morrow?’

  As soon as she had said it, Miss Walsh looked up apologetically, and caught Chloe’s laughing eye; and they laughed together.

  ‘No, no,’ said Miss Walsh. ‘I didn’t mean “Would you like to see a clergyman, dear?”’

  ‘I should like to hear a clergyman; to hear this particular one. His wife is dead, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. Fifteen years ago. And all his family is abroad. Where so many poor clergymen’s sons end up. Empire building. So, in a quiet, friendly way, we keep each other company.

  ‘I can’t help envying you both,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Don’t you think that when we envy other people their qualities, their lives, their possessions—we don’t mean “I wish I were you”, but “I wish I had some of the things you’ve got in addition to all I’ve got”?’

  ‘I think I generally mean: “I’d like to be you every Tuesday afternoon, just for a change”; and, when Tuesday came, I’d be so busy being myself, I’d say, “Let’s make it Wednesday this week, if you don’t mind”.’

  ‘I should like to be you,’ said Miss Walsh suddenly, ‘for one glorious year, and then come back to myself, and think about it for the rest of my life.’

  ‘I think you would find a year too long.’

  ‘I’d risk it. When you’re getting on for sixty, you would risk anything.’

  ‘I hope I shan’t live to sixty. I should be so terribly bad at it.’

  ‘Not you. You’ll be a very happy, very wise, old grandmother,’ said Miss Walsh, but she didn’t say it as if she believed it. Chloe laughed derisively, and came across to the sofa.

  ‘May I look?’

  ‘Just putting an E on a handkerchief.’

  ‘Is Essie short for Esther?’

  ‘Esmeralda,’ said Miss Walsh, getting a little colour into her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ cried Chloe. ‘Esmeralda! You ought to flaunt it, and dress up to it.’

  ‘Who for, my dear?’

  ‘Esmeralda Walsh, of course. Who else?’

  ‘It’s a little late now. You should have said all this thirty years ago.’

  ‘I meant to, but I forgot. Now listen, Esmeralda. Where do you get your clothes? Don’t say Chelmsford.’

  ‘Colchester.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t say Chelmsford. But why not try London? Big place. Lots of shops.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know which was which.’

  ‘We’ll go together. We’ll get you all Esmeralda for the Harvest Festival. It will be a secret from Mr Winghampton until he sees you suddenly in church between two vegetable marrows. What fun! Darling, say you will?’

  Chloe’s arms were round her suddenly. Miss Walsh found herself saying that she would.

  6

  As soon as the car turned into the road Chloe said:

  ‘How are you, darling, and what have you been doing with yourself over the week-end?’

  Percy gave her a long and literal account of what he had been doing with himself over the week-end.

  ‘So that’s how it was, old girl. First the boiler, and then the garden shears, and then the egg-whisk. Coming on the top of each other like that, and the egg-whisk being absolutely virgin ground as far as I was concerned, well, it meant leaving you to the old people for longer than I liked. But there it was. How did you get on with them? They’re not very lively at the best of times, I grant you, and I have a shrewd suspicion that Wing is losing his sense of humour, so if you want an apology, old girl, you can have it.’

  ‘No apology needed, darling. I just wondered where you’d been staying.’

  The Vicar, who had come to see them off, stood with Aunt Essie in the doorway waving good-bye. As soon as the car had turned into the road, he said:

  ‘Well, she is not marrying him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter,’ said Aunt Essie. ‘No man will ever hold her.’

  ‘She is very lovely.’

  ‘She is very clever,’ said Aunt Essie. ‘But I don’t mind.’

  Chapter Five

  1

  Back in the office after his week’s holiday, Barnaby was drawing up a prospectus of Prosser’s Encyclopaedia; or, as it might come to be called, Prosser’s Handy Knowall.

  The original idea for this original publication had come from Miss Lynette Silver, Stainer’s secretary. At four o’clock each afternoon a cup of tea, with an Osborne biscuit in the saucer, was followed into Barnaby’s room by a mass of tumbled fair hair, prominent blue eyes, irreproachable legs, and a nose a little too long. To the eye of the beholder it gave the effect of a pleasing design for a pretty girl which had never quite worked itself out. When on duty Miss Silver wore glasses with white shell rims, and these, somehow, made her look prettier, or perhaps gave more strongly the impression that prettiness would have been within her reach if she had not been too absorbed in her work to bother about it. She had a friend called Humby, presumed to be short for Humbert, of whom the office knew almost as much as she did. Barnaby liked her, because she was so obviously and so happily in love.

  ‘Your tea, Mr Rush, and it’s Monday.’

  ‘Thanks, Silvie. Here you are.’ He handed over a shilling.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rush. Don’t mind my sitting on your desk, do you? I got an idea.’ She perched on the corner of his desk, smiling happily at him and swinging her beautiful legs.

  ‘Would a cigarette help it?’

  ‘Well, I won’t say it wouldn’t.’ He gave her one, and lit it for her. ‘Thanks a lot. First time my Humby gave me a cig he said, “Have a cig,” and I said, “Ta,” and he just took no notice, and lit one for himself, and I thought, “Well, if that isn’t rude,” and as soon as it was going properly he took it out of his mouth and put it into mine, so there I was and no trouble at all. And now he always does it. Surprises my friends sometimes; they say, “Well!” Of course, I wouldn’t take it from anybody but my Humby, it wouldn’t be natural, would it, but when two people love each other——’

  ‘Absolutely, Silvie. Everything’s all right then. Well, what’s the idea?’

  ‘Well, it just came to me. Humby and I were lying out on the Heath yesterday doing a crossword, and one of the clues was “Planet”, well, of course, Humby said “Venus” and gave me a look, and when I’d thought of Mars—for him, because of being in the Territorials—well, we still hadn’t got one of six letters, so we let that go, and tried one of the cross ones, and it was “Dickens schoolmaster”, and Humby said Squeers because he’d read. Pickwick Papers, he’s read ever such a lot, and it fitted beautifully, but it was wrong, because it had to end with “e”, well, I mean you can’t read all through Dickens looking for a schoolmaster ending in “e”, so Humby said, “Why isn’t there a sort of special crossword encyclopaedia, cheap, where you could look everything up quickly, because thousands and thousands of people do crosswords,” so I thought, “Well, that’s an idea,” and I mentioned it to Mr Stainer, and he said, “Run along and talk to Mr Rush about it, and see what he thinks.” So here I am.’ She gave him her happy smile.

  ‘You’re quite right, Silvie, it’s an idea.’

  ‘You could call it Prosser’s Crossword Encyclopaedia.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about that. A lot of people don’t do crosswords, and a good many of the regulars like to pretend that they never look things up. Same as Rhyming Dictionaries. I daresay Tennyson had one, but he wouldn’t have liked Browning to see him buying one.’

  ‘My Humby’s grand-dad promised Humby five shillings if he read Paradise Lost right through when he was twelve, I mean he began when he was twelve, it didn’t matter when he finished, and Humby got half-way through in about six weeks, and thought well that’s half a crown, and then somehow he sort of lost interest until he was eighteen and saving up for his bike and he said it took him a long time to find where he’d left off, almost as long as leading it all over again, because he didn’t want to cheat, and then just as he finished, his grand-dad died, so in a kind of way he’d read it for nothing, except that Humby says it’s a wonderful poem and he must be the only man in England who’s read it right through, and probably all the middle part twice.’

  ‘I expect he is. I congratulate him.’

  ‘Your talking about the Rhyming Dictionary made me think of it. Well, but Mr Rush, if you don’t call it a Crossword Encyclopaedia, then it isn’t Humby’s idea at all. I mean, is it?’

  ‘It’s Humby’s idea, whatever we call it. What we want to do is to give the title a universal appeal, and then advertise it as the Crossword-Solvers’ Companion, or Indispensable to Crossword Solvers, or something like that. It’s funny that we’ve never published an encyclopaedia before.’

  ‘There’s Prosser’s Biblical Vade-mecum, Mr Rush.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that.’

  ‘My Humby doesn’t believe in the Book of Genesis,’ said Miss Silver with loving pride.

  All this had happened a month ago, and now Barnaby was trying to get the idea into some sort of shape. There was no doubt of the shape. Section I: Chloe. Section II: Chloe. Section III: Chloe. She overran his mind. He could still feel her physical presence in his arms; he could close his eyes, and take oath that she was there.

  Carnation in button-hole, he had called for her, laughed with her, supped with her, danced with her, driven her home. ‘Come up for a drink, darling,’ she had said, and he had come up. They sat in her little sitting-room, facing each other, their feet on a tuffet between them, a drink by the side of each chair; the time and the place alike meaningless to Chloe. Or so it seemed. She might, thought Barnaby, be one of those unsophisticated mid-Victorian maidens, whose innocence moved even transpontine villains to mercy; she might be entirely sexless; she might be a sadist, practising a special form of tantalization. Yet he knew, or thought he knew, that she was none of these things. Perhaps, like a princess in a fairy-book, she had devised a series of tests for her lovers. First test: Self control. That seemed absurd, too.

  ‘You still haven’t told me about Tommy,’ he said.

  ‘Tommy, darling?’

  ‘The man you’re deserting me for to-morrow. The snake in the grass who whispered Wimbledon in your ear.’

  ‘Oh! Well, we came out to-night instead. Haven’t you liked it, darling?’

  ‘You know I have, sweetheart. Adored.’

  ‘Then you mustn’t complain.’

  ‘I’ve never felt less like complaining. Who’s Tommy?’

  ‘The Duke of St. Ives.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You needn’t say “Oh” like that. He doesn’t mean a thing to me.’

  ‘I didn’t get the intonation right. “Oh!” No, that’s not much better. But it wasn’t a jealous “Oh”, darling.’

  ‘Oh, wasn’t it?’ said Chloe quickly. ‘Then I must see if I can’t make you jealous.’

  ‘Stop it!’ said Barnaby.

  She laughed, and blew him a kiss. Three o’clock in the morning, thought Barnaby, and we’ve had a bottle of champagne each, and danced to all her favourite tunes, and she’s blowing kisses.

  ‘You’re a ridiculous woman,’ he said. ‘You want everything both ways.’

  ‘That’s not being ridiculous, it’s just being a woman.’

  ‘I suppose it is. You know, sometimes I think you’re absolutely detestable, and sometimes I get a sort of glimmering notion that it isn’t altogether your fault.’

  ‘Why am I detestable?’ said Chloe with interest.

  ‘You tell such lies for one thing.’

  ‘Women are brought up to tell lies. As soon as they begin to grow up, girls are taught not to be frank about themselves. You hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I told you I had an idea it wasn’t altogether your fault.’

  ‘Tell me a single lie I’ve ever told you.’

  Barnaby laughed.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘What don’t I, darling?’

  ‘Two years ago come Michaelmas, or whenever it was, you gave me that very same challenge, and like a fool I took it on.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘You, of course. I gave you six perfect examples, and you just told them all over again.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’

  ‘There I was. Humbled, crushed, absolutely in the right, and apologizing like billy-o. Not again, my lovely.’

  ‘It was at Quinto’s,’ said Chloe lazily. ‘The first time we went there. Yes, just about two years ago.’

  ‘Oh, my darling, do you really remember?’

  ‘You had that tie I told you never to wear again. Have you ever worn it again?’

  ‘Those were my school house-colours.’

  ‘Then you ought to have grown out of them by now, ducky. I don’t wear my school gym-suit.’

  ‘Darling, you know perfectly well you never had a gym-suit. On your first day at school you sent for the headmistress and told her that you had decided to abolish gym-suits, and that you wouldn’t be in to lunch, as the drawing-master was taking you to the Metropole.’

  Chloe laughed and said, ‘What are you doing to-morrow, sweetie?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I was asked to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to Wimbledon.’

  ‘Aren’t you going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not, darling? We could have waved to each other.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, not at the time. I thought I had something better to do.’