Great tears stood in his eyes threatening to overflow.
“All this last week,” he said, “I’ve been reduced to making up my page from the Court Circular and Debrett… No one ever asks me anywhere now…”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Adam, “I know Margot pretty well. If you like I’ll ring her up and ask if I may bring you.”
“Will you? Will you, Adam? If only you really would. Let’s go and do it at once. We’ve no time for coffee or liqueurs. Quick, we can telephone from my office… yes, that black hat and my umbrella, no, I’ve lost the number… there, no, there, oh do hurry… Yes, a taxi…”
They were out in the street and into a taxi before Adam had time to say any more. Soon they were embedded in a traffic block in the Strand, and after a time they reached Balcairn’s office in Fleet Street.
They went up to a tiny room with “Social” written on the glass of the door. Its interior seemed not to justify its name. There was one chair, a typewriter, a telephone, some books of reference and a considerable litter of photographs. Balcairn’s immediate superior sat in the one chair.
“Hullo,” she said. “So you’re back. Where you been?”
“Espinosa. Here’s the list.”
The social editress read it through. “Can’t have Kitty Blackwater,” she said. “Had her yesterday. Others’ll do. Write ’em down to a couple of paragraphs. Suppose you didn’t notice what they were wearing?”
“Yes,” said Balcairn eagerly. “All of them.”
“Well, you won’t have room to use it. We got to keep everything down for Lady M.’s party. I’ve cut out the D. of Devonshire altogether. By the way, the photograph you used yesterday wasn’t the present Countess of Everyman. It’s an old one of the Dowager. We had ’em both on the ’phone about it, going on something awful. That’s you again. Got your invite for tonight?”
“Not yet.”
“You better get it quick. I got to have a firsthand story before we go to press, see? By the way, know anything about this? Lady R.’s maid sent it in today.” She picked up a slip of paper: “ ‘Rumored engagement broken off between Adam Fenwick-Symes, only son of the late Professor Oliver Fenwick-Symes, and Nina Blount, of Doubting Hall, Aylesbury.’ Never heard of either. Ain’t even been announced, so far as I’m aware of.”
“You’d better ask him. This is Adam Symes.”
“Hullo, no offense meant, I’m sure… What about it?”
“It is neither announced nor broken off.”
“N.B.G. in fact, eh? Then that goes there.” She put the slip into the wastepaper basket. “That girl’s sent us a lot of bad stuff lately. Well, I’m off for a bit of lunch. I’ll be over at the Garden Club if anything urgent turns up. So long.”
The editress went out, banging the door labeled “Social,” and whistled as she went down the passage.
“You see how they treat me,” said Lord Balcairn. “They were all over me when I first arrived. I do so wish I were dead.”
“Don’t cry,” said Adam, “it’s too shy-making.”
“I can’t help it… oh, do come in.”
The door marked “Social” opened and a small boy came in.
“Lord Circumference’s butler downstairs with some engagements and a divorce.”
“Tell him to leave them.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“That’s the only person in this office who’s ever polite to me,” said Balcairn as the messenger disappeared. “I wish I had something to leave him in my will… Do ring up Margot. Then I shall at any rate know the worst… Come in.”
“Gentleman of the name of General Strapper downstairs. Wants to see you very particular.”
“What about?”
“Couldn’t say, my lord, but he’s got a whip. Seems very put out about something.”
“Tell him the social editor is having luncheon… Do ring up Margot.”
Adam said, “Margot, may I bring someone with me tonight?”
“Well, Adam, I really don’t think you can. I can’t imagine how everyone’s going to get in as it is. I’m terribly sorry, who is it?”
“Simon Balcairn. He’s particularly anxious to come.”
“I dare say he is. I’m rather against that young man. He’s written things about me in the papers.”
“Please, Margot.”
“Certainly not. I won’t have him inside my house. I’ve only asked Van on the strictest understanding that he doesn’t write anything about it. I don’t wish to have anything more to do with Simon Balcairn.”
“My dear, how rich you sound.”
“I feel my full income when that young man is mentioned. Good-bye. See you tonight.”
“You needn’t tell me,” said Balcairn. “I know what she’s said… it’s no good, is it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Done for…” said Balcairn. “… End of the tether…” He turned over some slips of paper listlessly. “Would it interest you to hear that Agatha and Archie are engaged?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Neither do I. One of our people has just sent it in. Half of what they send us is lies, and the other half libel… they sent us a long story about Miles and Pamela Popham having spent last night at Arundel… But we couldn’t use it even if it were true, which it obviously isn’t, knowing Miles. Thank you for doing what you could… good-bye.”
Downstairs in the outer office there was an altercation in progress. A large man of military appearance was shaking and stamping in front of a middle-aged woman. Adam recognized the social editress.
“Answer me, yes or no,” the big man was saying. “Are you or are you not responsible for this damnable lie about my daughter?”
(He had read in Simon Balcairn’s column that his daughter had been seen at a night club. To anyone better acquainted with Miss Strapper’s habits of life the paragraph was particularly reticent.)
“Yes or no,” cried the General, “or I’ll shake the life out of you.”
“No.”
“Then who is? Let me get hold of the cad who wrote it. Where is he?” roared the General.
“Upstairs,” the social editress managed to say.
“More trouble for Simon,” thought Adam.
Adam went to pick Nina up at her flat. They had arranged to go to a cinema together. She said, “You’re much later than you said. It’s so boring to be late for a talkie.”
He said, “Talkies are boring, anyhow.”
They treated each other quite differently after their night’s experiences. Adam was inclined to be egotistical and despondent; Nina was rather grown-up and disillusioned and distinctly cross. Adam began to say that as far as he could see he would have to live on at Shepheard’s now for the rest of his life, or at any rate for the rest of Lottie’s life, as it wouldn’t be fair to leave without paying the bill.
Then Nina said, “Do be amusing, Adam. I can’t bear you when you’re not amusing.”
Then Adam began to tell her about Simon Balcairn and Margot’s party. He described how he had seen Simon being horsewhipped in the middle of the office.
Nina said, “Yes, that’s amusing. Go on like that.”
The story of Simon’s whipping lasted them all the way to the cinema. They were very late for the film Nina wanted to see, and that set them back again. They didn’t speak for a long time. Then Nina said à propos of the film, “All this fuss about sleeping together. For physical pleasure I’d sooner go to my dentist any day.”
Adam said, “You’ll enjoy it more next time.”
Nina said, “Next time,” and told him that he took too much for granted.
Adam said that was a phrase which only prostitutes used.
Then they started a real quarrel which lasted all through the film and all the way to Nina’s flat and all the time she was cutting up a lemon and making a cocktail, until Adam said that if she didn’t stop going on he would ravish her there and then on her own hearthrug.
Then Nina went on
.
But by the time that Adam went to dress she had climbed down enough to admit that perhaps love was a thing one could grow to be fond of after a time, like smoking a pipe. Still she maintained that it made one feel very ill at first, and she doubted if it was worth it.
Then they began to argue at the top of the lift about whether acquired tastes were ever worth acquiring. Adam said it was imitation, and that it was natural to man to be imitative, so that acquired tastes were natural.
But the presence of the lift boy stopped that argument coming to a solution as the other had done.
“My, ain’t this classy,” said Divine Discontent.
“It’s all right,” said Chastity in a worldly voice. “Nothing to make a song and dance about.”
“Who’s making a song and dance? I just said it was classy—and it is classy, ain’t it?”
“I suppose everything’s classy to some people.”
“Now you two,” said Temperance, who had been put in charge of the angels for the evening, “don’t you start anything in here, not with your wings on. Mrs. Ape won’t stand for scrapping in wings, and you know it.”
“Who’s starting anything?”
“Well, you are then.”
“Oh, it’s no use talking to Chastity. She’s too high and mighty to be an angel now. Went out for a drive with Mrs. Panrast in a Rolls-Royce,” said Fortitude. “I saw her. I was so sorry it rained all the time, or it might have been quite enjoyable, mightn’t it, Chastity?”
“Well, you ought to be glad. Leaves the men for you, Fortitude. Only they don’t seem to want to take advantage, do they?”
Then they talked about men for some time. Divine Discontent thought the second footman had nice eyes.
“And he knows it,” said Temperance.
They were all having supper together in what was still called the schoolroom in Lady Metroland’s house. From the window they could see the guests arriving for the party. In spite of the rain quite a large crowd had collected on either side of the awning to criticize the cloaks with appreciative “oohs” and “ahs” or contemptuous sniffs. Cars and taxis drove up in close succession. Lady Circumference splashed up the street in galoshes, wearing a high fender of diamonds under a tartan umbrella. The Bright Young People came popping all together, out of someone’s electric brougham like a litter of pigs, and ran squealing up the steps. Some “gate-crashers” who had made the mistake of coming in Victorian fancy dress were detected and repulsed. They hurried home to change for a second assault. No one wanted to miss Mrs. Ape’s debut.
But the angels were rather uneasy. They had been dressed ever since seven o’clock in their white shifts, gold sashes and wings. It was now past ten, and the strain was beginning to tell, for it was impossible to sit back comfortably in wings.
“Oh, I wish they’d hurry up so we could get it over,” said Creative Endeavor. “Mrs. Ape said we could have some champagne afterwards if we sang nice.”
“I don’t mind betting she’s doing herself pretty well, down there.”
“Chastity!”
“Oh, all right.”
Then the footman with the nice eyes came to clear the table. He gave them a friendly wink as he shut the door. “Pretty creatures,” he thought. “Blooming shame that they’re so religious… wasting the best years of their lives.”
(There had been a grave debate in the servants’ hall about the exact status of angels. Even Mr. Blenkinsop, the butler, had been uncertain. “Angels are certainly not guests,” he had said, “and I don’t think they are deputations. Nor they ain’t governesses either, nor clergy not strictly speaking; they’re not entertainers, because entertainers dine nowadays, the more’s the pity.”
“I believe they’re decorators,” said Mrs. Blouse, “or else charitable workers.”
“Charitable workers are governesses, Mrs. Blouse. There is nothing to be gained by multiplying social distinctions indefinitely. Decorators are either guests or workmen.”
After further discussion the conclusion was reached that angels were nurses, and that became the official ruling of the household. But the second footman was of the opinion that they were just “young persons,” pure and simple, “and very nice too,” for nurses cannot, except in very rare cases, be winked at, and clearly angels could.)
“What we want to know, Chastity,” said Creative Endeavor, “is how you come to take up with Mrs. Panrast at all.”
“Yes,” said the Angels, “yes. It’s not like you, Chastity, to go riding in a motor car with a woman.” They fluttered their feathers in a menacing way. “Let’s third-degree her,” said Humility with rather nasty relish.
(There was a system of impromptu jurisdiction among the Angels which began with innuendo, went on to cross-examination, pinches and slaps and ended, as a rule, in tears and kisses.)
Faced by this circle of spiteful and haloed faces, Chastity began to lose her air of superiority.
“Why shouldn’t I ride with a friend,” she asked plaintively, “without all you girls pitching on me like this?”
“Friend?” said Creative Endeavor. “You never saw her before today,” and she gave her a nasty pinch just above the elbow.
“Ooooh!” said Chastity. “Ooh, please… beast.”
Then they all pinched her all over, but precisely and judiciously, so as not to disturb her wings or halo, for this was no orgy (sometimes in their bedroom, they gave way, but not here, in Lady Metroland’s schoolroom, before an important first night).
“Ooh,” said Chastity. “Ooh, ow, ooh, ow. Please, beasts, swine, cads… please… ooh… well, if you must know, I thought she was a man.”
“Thought she was a man, Chastity? That doesn’t sound right to me.”
“Well, she looks like a man and—and she goes on like a man. I saw her sitting at a table in a teashop. She hadn’t got a hat on, and I couldn’t see her skirt… ooh… how can I tell you if you keep pinching… and she smiled and so, well, I went and had some tea with her, and she said would I go out with her in her motor car, and I said yes and, ooh, I wish I hadn’t now.”
“What did she say in the motor car, Chastity?”
“I forget—nothing much.”
“Oh, what.” “Do tell us.” “We’ll never pinch you again if you tell us.” “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Chastity, do tell me.” “You’d better tell us.”
“No, I can’t, really—I don’t remember, I tell you.”
“Give her another little nip, girls.”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh, stop. I’ll tell you.”
Their heads were close together and they were so deeply engrossed in the story that they did not hear Mrs. Ape’s entry.
“Smut again,” said a terrible voice. “Girls, I’m sick ashamed of you.”
Mrs. Ape looked magnificent in a gown of heavy gold brocade embroidered with texts.
“I’m sick ashamed of you,” repeated Mrs. Ape, “and you’ve made Chastity cry again, just before the big act. If you must bully someone, why choose Chastity? You all know by this time that crying always gives her a red nose. How do I look, I should like to know, standing up in front of a lot of angels with red noses? You don’t ever think of nothing but your own pleasures, do you? Sluts.” This last word was spoken with a depth of expression that set the angels trembling. “There’ll be no champagne for anyone tonight, see. And if you don’t sing perfectly, I’ll give the whole lot of you a good hiding, see. Now, come on, now, and for the love of the Lamb, Chastity, do something to your nose. They’ll think it’s a temperance meeting to see you like that.”
It was a brilliant scene into which the disconsolate angels trooped two minutes later. Margot Metroland shook hands with each of them as they came to the foot of the staircase, appraising them, one by one, with an expert eye.
“You don’t look happy, my dear,” she found time to say to Chastity, as she led them across the ballroom to their platform, banked in orchids at the far end. “If you feel you want a change, let me know later, and I can get y
ou a job in South America. I mean it.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Chastity, “but I could never leave Mrs. Ape.”
“Well, think it over, child. You’re far too pretty a girl to waste your time singing hymns. Tell that other girl, the redheaded one, that I can probably find a place for her, too.”
“What, Humility? Don’t you have nothing to do with her. She’s a fiend.”
“Well, some men like rough stuff, but I don’t want anyone who makes trouble with the other girls.”
“She makes trouble all right. Look at that bruise.”
“My dear!”
Margot Metroland and Mrs. Ape led the angels up the steps between the orchids and stood them at the back of the platform facing the room. Chastity stood next to Creative Endeavor.
“Please, Chastity, I’m sorry if we hurt you,” said Creative Endeavor. “I didn’t pinch hard, did I?”
“Yes,” said Chastity. “Like hell you did.”
A slightly sticky hand tried to take hers, but she clenched her fist. She would go to South America and work for Lady Metroland… and she wouldn’t say anything about it to Humility either. She glared straight in front of her, saw Mrs. Panrast and dropped her eyes.
The ballroom was filled with little gilt chairs and the chairs with people. Lord Vanburgh, conveniently seated near the door, through which he could slip away to the telephone, was taking them all in. They were almost all, in some way or another, notable. The motives for Margot Metroland’s second marriage* had been mixed, but entirely worldly; chief among them had been the desire to reestablish her somewhat shaken social position, and her party that night testified to her success, for while many people can entertain the Prime Minister and the Duchess of Stayle and Lady Circumference, and anybody can, and often against her will does, entertain Miles Malpractice and Agatha Runcible, it is only a very confident hostess who will invite both these sets together at the same time, differing as they do upon almost all questions of principle and deportment. Standing near Vanburgh, by the door, was a figure who seemed in himself to typify the change that had come over Pastmaster House when Margot Beste-Chetwynde became Lady Metroland; an unobtrusive man of rather less than average height, whose black beard, falling in tight burnished curls, nearly concealed the order of St. Michael and St. George which he wore round his neck; he wore a large signet ring on the little finger of his left hand outside his white glove; there was an orchid in his buttonhole. His eyes, youthful but grave, wandered among the crowd; occasionally he bowed with grace and decision. Several people were asking about him.