She stood clinging to Stringham's arm, while, as if dancing, she twitched her body this way and that. Her eyes were brown and very bright, and the jewels she wore, in rather defiant profusion, looked as if they might have cost a good deal of money. She could have been about thirty-five; perhaps a year or two more. At first it seemed to me that she must have been a great beauty ten or fifteen years earlier; but I discovered, in due course, from those who had known Mrs. Andriadis for a long time that, on the contrary, the epoch of this party represented perhaps the peak of her good looks-that is, if her looks (or anyone else's) could be admitted as open to objective judgment by some purely hypothetical standard; for, as Barnby used to say: "It's no good being a beauty alone on a desert island." Barnby himself adhered to the theory that Mrs. Andriadis's appearance had been greatly improved after her hair had turned grey; being accustomed to add to this opinion the statement that the change of shade had taken place "After her first night with The Royal Personage, as Edgar always calls him." I was strongly reminded by her appearance-so it seemed to me-of another woman; though of whom I could not decide.

"I brought some friends along, Milly," said Stringham. "You don't mind?"

"You darlings," said Mrs. Andriadis. "It is going to be a lovely party now. All arranged on the spur of the moment. Come with me, Charles. We are making Deauville plans."

Although obviously in the habit of having her own way in most matters, she showed no surprise at all at the sight of Widmerpool, Mr. Deacon, Gypsy Jones, and myself. Indeed, it seemed probable that, as newly-arrived ent.i.ties, she took cognisance, so far as our self-contained group was concerned, of no more than Mr. Deacon and me, since Widmerpool and Gypsy Jones, threading their way across the room, had been left some little way behind the rest of us. Even Mr. Deacon, in spite of strenuous efforts on his own part, scarcely managed to shake hands with Mrs. Andriadis, although, as he bent almost double, the tips of their fingers may have touched. It was at that instant of tenuous contact that Mr. Deacon attempted to explain the matter, mentioned already by him at the coffee-stall, to the effect that he thought they had met once before "in Paris with the Murats." An a.s.sertion of which Mrs. Andriadis herself took no notice whatsoever.

As it turned out, neither Widmerpool nor Gyspy Jones ever reached her at that-nor, as far as I know, any other-stage of the party, because, evidently deciding to spend no more time or her welcome of such miscellaneous guests, she took Stringham by the arm, and bore him away. Widmerpool, with a set expression on his face, pa.s.sed obliquely through the crowd, still filled, as I supposed, with an unquenchable determination, even stronger, if possible, than Mr. Deacon's, to make himself at all costs known to his hostess. Gypsy Jones also disappeared from sight at the same moment, though not, it might be presumed, with the same aim. Their effacement was effected rather to my relief, because I had feared from Widmerpool a stream of comment of a kind for which I felt not at all in the mood; while at the same time, rather sn.o.bbishly, I did not wish to appear too closely responsible for being the cause, however indirect, of having brought Mr. Deacon and Gypsy Jones to the house. This was the moment when the surrounding tableaux formed by the guests began to take coherent shape in my eyes, when viewed from the corner by the grand piano, where I had been left beside Mr. Deacon, who now accepted with a somewhat roguish glance, a beaker of champagne from the tray of one of the men-servants.

"I cannot say I altogether like these parties," he said. "A great many of them seem to be given these days. Paris was just the same. I really should not have accepted your nice-looking friend's invitation if we had not had such a very indifferent evening with War Never Pays! War Never Pays! As it was, I felt some recreation was deserved-though I fear I shall not find much here. Not, at least, in any form likely to appeal to my present mood. By the way, I don't know whether you would ever care to lend a hand with As it was, I felt some recreation was deserved-though I fear I shall not find much here. Not, at least, in any form likely to appeal to my present mood. By the way, I don't know whether you would ever care to lend a hand with War Never Pays! War Never Pays!, a penny, one of these days? We are always glad to enlist new helpers."

I excused myself decisively from any such undertaking on grounds of lacking apt.i.tude for any kind of salesmanship.

"Not everyone feels it a bounden duty," said Mr. Deacon. "I need not tell you that Gypsy is scarcely a colleague I should choose, if I were a free agent, but she is so keen I cannot very well raise objection. Her political motives are not identical with my own, but Pacifism is ally of all who desire this country's disarmament. Do you know, I even put her up at my place? After all, you can't expect her to get all the way back to Hendon Central at this time of night. It wouldn't be right."

He spoke almost with unction at the n.o.bility of such self-sacrifice, and, finishing his champagne at a gulp, wiped the corners of his mouth carefully with a silk handkerchief. On the wall opposite us, one of the panels of the room had been replaced-possibly with the object of increasing the rather "daring" effect at which decoration of the house evidently aimed-with squares of looking-gla.s.s, in the reflections of which could be observed the changing pattern made by the occupants of the room.

The lady with the tiara had at last reluctantly abandoned the magnum to her bearded opponent (now accommodated with a younger, though less conspicuous, woman), and, apparently much flattered by the attention, she was accepting a cigarette from the Negro's long case, which he was holding out towards her, the metal seeming delicately matched in tone with the skin of its owner's hand, also the tint of old gold. Beyond this couple, the gentleman with the eye-gla.s.s and medals was now talking to a figure whose back-view-for some reason familiar-showed an immensely time-worn suit of evening clothes, the crumpled tails of which hung down almost to its wearer's heels, giving him the appearance of a musical-hall comedian, or conjuror of burlesque, whose baggy Charlie Chaplin trousers, threatening descent to the ground at any moment, would probably reveal red flannel, grotesquely spotted, or some otherwise traditionally comic, underclothes, or lack of them, beneath. Matted white hair protruded over the back of this person's collar, and he was alternately rubbing together his hands and replacing them in the pockets of these elephantine trousers, while he stood nodding his head, and sagging slightly at the knees. I suddenly became aware, with some surprise, that the man with the medals was Colonel Budd-Margaret Budd's father-who held some minor appointment at Court. He had also perhaps, "come on" from the Huntercombes'.

"She reposes herself at the back of the shop," said Mr. Deacon, pursuing the topic of his connection with Gypsy Jones. "I make up the bed-a divan-myself, with some rather fine Cashmere shawls a former patron of mine left me in his will. However, I don't expect she will need them on a warm night like this. Just as well, if they're not to be worn to shreds. As a matter of fact they are going for a mere song if you happen to know anyone interested in Oriental textiles. I can always find something else to put over Gypsy. Of course Barnby doesn't much like her being there."

I did not at that time know who Barnby might be, though I felt sure that I had heard of him; connecting the name-as it turned out, correctly-with painting.

"I see his point," said Mr. Deacon, "even though I know little of such things. Gypsy's att.i.tude naturally-perhaps Barnby would prefer me to say 'unnaturally'-offends his amour propre amour propre. In some ways he is not an ideal tenant himself. I don't want women running up and down stairs all day long-and all night long too, for that matter-just because I have to put up with Gypsy in a good cause."

He spoke complainingly, and paused for breath, coughing throatily, as if he might be suffering from asthma. Both of us helped ourselves to another drink. Meanwhile, seen in the looking-gla.s.s, Colonel Budd and the wearer of the Charlie Chaplin trousers now began to edge their way round the wall to where a plump youth with a hooked nose and black curly hair, perhaps an Oriental, was talking to a couple of strikingly pretty girls. For a minute or two I had already been conscious of something capable of recognition about the old clothes and a.s.sured carriage of the baggy-trousered personage, whose face, until that moment, had been hidden from me. When he turned towards the room, I found that die features were Sillery's, not seen since I had come down from the university.

To happen upon Sillery in London at that season of the year was surprising. Usually, by the time the first few weeks of the Long Vacation had pa.s.sed, he was already abroad, in Austria or Italy, with a reading party of picked undergraduates: or even a fellow don or two, chosen with equal care, always twenty or thirty years younger than himself. Sillery, probably with wisdom, always considered himself at a disadvantage outside his own academical strongholds. He was accordingly accustomed, on the whole, to emphasise the corruption of metropolitan life as such, in spite of almost febrile interest in the affairs of those who found themselves habitually engaged in London's social activities; but, on the other hand, if pa.s.sing through on his way to the Continent, he would naturally welcome opportunity to be present, as if by accident, at a party of this kind, when luck put such a chance in his way. The acc.u.mulated gossip there obtainable could be secreted, and eked out for weeks and months-even years-at his own tea-parties; or injected in judiciously homeopathic doses to rebut and subdue refractory colleagues at High Table. Possibly, with a view to enjoying such potential benefits, he might even have delayed departure to the lakes and mountains where his summers were chiefly spent; but if he had come to London specially to be present, there could be no doubt that it was to pursue here some negotiation judged by himself to be of first-rate importance.

As they skirted the wall, Sillery and his companion, by contrast remarkably spruce, had almost the appearance of a pair of desperadoes on their way to commit an act of violence, and, on reaching the place where the dark young man was standing, the Colonel certainly seemed to get rid of the women without much ceremony, treating them almost as a policeman might peremptorily "move on" from the corner of the street female loiterers of dubious complexion. The taller of the two girls was largely built, with china-blue eyes and yellow hair, holding herself in a somewhat conventionally languorous style: the other, dark, with small, pointed b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a neat, supple figure. The combined effect of their beauty was irresistible, causing a kind of involuntary pang, as if for a split-second I loved both of them pa.s.sionately; though a further survey convinced me that nothing so disturbing had taken place. The girls composedly allowed themselves to be dislodged by Colonel Budd and Sillery: at the same time remaining on guard in a strategic position at a short distance, talking and laughing with each other, and with people in the immediate neighbourhood: evidently unwilling to abandon entirely their original stations vis-a-vis vis-a-vis the young man. the young man.

The Colonel, imperceptibly inclining his neck in an abrupt gesture suggesting almost the sudden suppression of an unexpected eructation, presented Sillery, not without deference to this rather mysterious figure, regarding whom I had begun to feel a decided curiosity. The young man, smiling graciously, though rather shyly, held out a hand. Sillery, grinning broadly in return, made a deep bow that seemed, by its mixture of farce and formality, to accord perfectly with the cut of his evening clothes, in their implication of pantomime or charade. However, fearing that absorption in this scene, as reflected in the looking-gla.s.s, might have made me seem inattentive to Mr. Deacon's exposition of difficulties experienced in contending with his household, I made further inquiries regarding Barnby's status as a painter. Mr. Deacon did not warm to this subject. I found when I knew him better that this luke-warm att.i.tude was not to be attributed entirely to jealousy he might feel towards Barnby's success, but rather because, finding his own views on the subject so opposed to contemporary opinion as to be in practice untenable, he preferred to close his eyes to the existence of modern painting, just as formerly he had closed his eyes to politics and war. Accordingly, I asked about the nature of Barnby's objections to Gypsy Jones.

"When Gypsy and I were first acquainted," said Mr. Deacon, lowering his voice, "I was given to understand-well, hasn't Swinburne got some lines about 'wandering watery sighs where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories'? In fact restriction to such a coastline was almost a condition of our a.s.sociation."

"Did Barnby object?"

"I think he undoubtedly felt resentment," said Mr. Deacon. "But, as a very dear friend of mine once remarked when I was a young man-for I was a young man once, whatever you may think to the contrary-'Gothic manners don't mix with Greek morals.' Gypsy would never learn that."

Mr. Deacon stopped speaking. He seemed to be deliberating within himself whether or not to ask some question, in the wording of which he found perhaps a certain embarra.s.sment. After a few seconds he said: "As a matter of fact I am rather worried about Gypsy. I suppose you don't happen to know the address of any medicos-I don't mean the usual general pract.i.tioner with the restricted views of his profession-no, I didn't for a moment suppose that you did. And of course one does not wish to get mixed up. I feel just the same as yourself. But you were inquiring about Barnby. I really must arrange for you to meet. I think you would like each other."

When such sc.r.a.ps of gossip are committed to paper, the words bear a heavier weight than when the same information is imparted huskily between draughts of champagne, in the noise of a crowded room; besides which, my thoughts hovering still on the two girls who had been displaced by Sillery and Colonel Budd, I had not been giving very full attention to what Mr. Deacon had been saying. However, if I had at that moment considered Gypsy Jones's difficulties with any seriousness, I should probably have decided, rightly or wrongly, that she was well able to look after herself. Even in the quietest forms of life the untoward is rarely far from the surface, and in the intemperate circles to which she seemed to belong nothing was surprising. I felt at the time absolutely no inclination to pursue the matter further. Mr. Deacon himself became temporarily lost in thought.

Our attention was at that moment violently reorientated by the return to the room of Mrs. Andriadis, who now shouted-a less forcible word would have been inadequate to describe her manner of announcing the news-that "darling Max" was going to sing: a statement creating a small upheaval in our immediate surroundings, owing to the proximity of the piano, upon which a bottle of champagne was now placed. A mild-looking young man in spectacles was thrust through the crowd, who seating himself on the music-stool, protested: "Must I really tickle the dominoes?" A number of voices at once encouraged him to embark upon his musical activity, and, after winding round the seat once or twice, apparently more as a ritual than for practical reasons, he struck a few chords.

"Really," said Mr. Deacon, as if ent.i.tled to feel honest disgust at this development, "Mrs. Andriadis does not seem to care in the least whom she makes friends with."

"Who is he?"

"Max Pilgrim-a public performer of some sort."

The young man now began to sing in a tremulous, quavering voice, like that of an immensely ancient lady, though at the same time the words filled the room with a considerable volume of sound: "I'm Tess of Le Touquet, My morals are flukey, Tossed on the foam, I couldn't be busier; Permanent waves Splash me into the caves; Everyone loves me as much as Delysia.

When it's wet on the Links, I know where to have a beau Down in the club-house-next door to the lavabo."

There was m.u.f.fled laughter and some fragmentary applause, though a hum of conversation continued to be heard round about us.

"I don't care for this at all," said Mr. Deacon. "To begin with, I do not entirely understand the meaning of the words-if they have any meaning-and, in the second place, the singer once behaved to me in what I consider an objectionable manner. I can't think how Mrs. Andriadis can have him in the house. It can't do her reputation any good."

The appearance of Max Pilgrim at the piano had thoroughly put out Mr. Deacon. In an attempt to relieve the gloom that had fallen on him I inquired about Mrs. Andriadis's past.

"Barnby knows more about her than I do," he said, rather resentfully. "She is said to have been mistress of a Royal Personage for a time. Personally I am not greatly stimulated by such revelations."

"Is she still kept?"

"My dear boy, you have the crudest way of putting things," said Mr. Deacon, smiling at this, and showing signs of cheering up a little. "No-so far as I am aware-our hostess is no longer 'kept,' as you are pleased to term the former state of life to which she was called by Providence. A client of mine told me that her present husband-there have been several-possessed comprehensive business interests in Manchester, or that region. My friend's description suggested at least a sufficient competence on the latest husband's part for the condition of dependence you mention to be, financially speaking, no longer necessary for his lady-even, perhaps, undesirable. Apart from this, I know little of Mr. Andriadis, though I imagine him to be a man of almost infinite tolerance. You are, I expect, familiar, with Barnby's story of the necklace?"

"What necklace?"

"Milly," said Mr. Deacon, p.r.o.nouncing Mrs. Andriadis's name with affected delicacy, "Milly saw a diamond-and-emerald necklace in Cartier's. It cost, shall we say, two million francs. She approached the Royal Personage, who happened to be staying at the Crillon at that moment, and asked for the money to buy herself the necklace as a birthday present. The Royal Personage handed her the banknotes-which he was no doubt accustomed to keep in his pocket-and Milly curtsied her way out. She went round the corner to the apartment of a well-known French industrialist-I cannot remember which, but you would know the name-who was also interested in her welfare, and requested him to drive there and then to Cartier's and buy the necklace on the spot. This the industrialist was obliging enough to do. Milly, was, therefore, two million francs to the good, and could, at the same time, give pleasure to both her protectors by wearing the necklace in the company of either. Simple-like all great ideas."

Mr Deacon paused. He seemed all at once to regret this sudden, and uncharacteristic, outburst of sophistication on so mundane a subject. The anecdote had certainly been told in a manner entirely foreign to his accustomed tone in dealing with worldly matters; discussed by him in general, at least publicly-as I found at a later date, as if all practical transactions were wrapped in mystery impenetrable for one of his simple outlook. Such an approach had been, indeed, habitual with him at all times, and, even so far back as the days when my parents used to speak of him, I could recall banter about Mr. Deacon's repeatedly expressed ignorance of the world. This att.i.tude did not, of course, repudiate on his part a certain insistence on his own knowingness in minor, and more "human," affairs, such as the running of his shop, described so precisely by him a short time earlier at the coffee-stall. The story of the necklace was, I thought, in some way vaguely familiar to me. It had possibly figured in the repertoire of Peter Templer at school, the heroine of Templer's anecdote, so I believed, represented as a well-known actress rather than Mrs. Andriadis herself.

"Not that I know anything of such gallivanting," said Mr. Deacon, as if by now ashamed of his momentary abandonment of the una.s.sailable position vouchsafed to him by reliance, in all circ.u.mstances, on an artist's traditional innocence of heart. "Personally I should be delighted for kings, priests, armament manufacturers, poules de luxe poules de luxe, and hoc genus omne hoc genus omne to be swept into the dust-bin-and I might add all the nonsense we find about us tonight." to be swept into the dust-bin-and I might add all the nonsense we find about us tonight."

As he stopped speaking, the words of the song, which had been proceeding through a number of verses, now became once more audible: "Even the fairies Say how sweet my hair is; They mess my mascara and pinch the peroxide.

I know a coward Would be overpowered, When they all offer to be orthodox. I'd Like to be kind but say: 'Some other day, dears; Pansies for thoughts remains still the best way, dears.'"

This verse gave great offence to Mr. Deacon. Indeed, its effect was almost electric in the suddenness of the ferment it caused within him. He brushed away a lock of grey hair fallen over his forehead, and clenched his fist until the knuckles were white. He was evidently very angry. "Insufferable!" he said. "And from such a person."

He had gone quite pale with irritation. The Negro, too, perhaps himself a vocalist, or performer upon some instrument, had also been watching Max Pilgrim with a look of mounting, though silent, hatred that had contracted the whole of his face into a scowl of self-righteous rage. This look seemed by then to have dramatised his bearing into the character of Oth.e.l.lo. But the pianist, taking occasional nips at his champagne, showed no sign of observing any of the odium aroused by him in these or other quarters. Mr. Deacon sighed. There was a moment when I thought he might, there and then, have decided to leave the house. His chest heaved. However, he evidently made up his mind to dismiss unpleasant reflections.

"Your young friend appears to hold the place of honour here," he said, in a more restrained voice. "Is he rich? Who are his parents-if I am not being inquisitive?"

"They are divorced. His father married a Frenchwoman and lives in Kenya. His mother was a South African, also remarried-to a sailor called Foxe."

"Buster Foxe?"

"Yes."

"Rather a chic sailor," said Mr. Deacon. "If I mistake not, I used to hear about him in Paris. And she started life as wife of some belted earl or other."

He was again showing recklessness in giving voice to these spasmodic outbursts of worldly knowledge. The champagne perhaps caused this intermittent pulling aside of the curtain that concealed some, apparently considerable, volume of practical information about unlikely people: a little storehouse, the existence of which he was normally unwilling to admit, yet preserved safely at the back of his mind in case of need.

"What was the name?" he went on. "She is a very handsome woman-or was."

"Warrington."

"The Beautiful Lady Warrington!" said Mr. Deacon. "I remember seeing a photograph of her in The Queen The Queen. There was some nonsense there, too, about a fancy-dress ball she had given. When will people learn better? And Warrington himself was much older than she, and died soon after their marriage. He probably drank."

"So far as I know, he was a respectable brigadier-general. It is Charles Stringham's father who likes the bottle."

"They are all the same," said Mr. Deacon, decisively.

Whether this condemnation was aimed at all husbands of Stringham's mother, or, more probably, intended, in principle, to embrace members of the entire social stratum from which these husbands had, up to date, been drawn, was not made clear. Once more he fell into silence, as if thinking things over. Max Pilgrim continued to hammer and strum and take gulps of champagne, while against an ever-increasing buzz of conversation, he chanted his song continuously, as if it were a narrative poem or saga recording the heroic, legendary deeds of some primitive race: "I do hope Tallulah Now feels a shade cooler, But why does she pout, as she wanders so far off From Monsieur Citroen, Who says something knowin'

To Lady Cunard and Sir Basil Zaharoff?

Has someone guessed who was having a beano At Milly's last party behind the Casino?"

This verse turned out to be the climax. Max Pilgrim, removing his spectacles, rose and bowed. Since the beginning of the song, many people, among them Mrs. Andriadis herself, had drifted away, and the room was now half empty, though a small group of enthusiasts still hovered round the piano. This residuum now clapped and applauded heartily. Pilgrim was almost immediately led away by two ladies, neither of them young. What remained of the crowd began to shift and rearrange its component parts, so that in the movement following the song's termination Mr. Deacon was swept away from his corner. I watched him betake himself by easy stages to the door, no doubt with the object of further exploration. While I was looking, someone grasped my arm, and I found that Sillery was standing beside me.

By employment of a successful disengaging movement, the dark young man had by then managed to extract himself from the encirclement that had cut him off from the two girls, to whom he had now successfully returned; an operation made easier by the fact that the girls themselves had remained conveniently near, chattering and t.i.ttering together. At this development Sillery, who seemed to be enjoying himself hugely, must have pottered away from Colonel Budd, with whom his a.s.sociation was no doubt on a purely business footing. He had paused by me, as if to take breath, apparently unable to decide where best to make his next important descent, puffing out his still dark walrus moustache, and leaning forward, as he swayed slightly. This faint oscillation was not, of course, due to drink, which he touched in no circ.u.mstances, but sustained himself through hour after hour of social adventure on a cup or two of cafe au lait cafe au lait, with perhaps an occasional sandwich or biscuit. His white tie was knotted so loosely that it formed a kind of four-in-hand under the huge wings of his collar, itself limp from want of starch.

"Why so thoughtful?" he asked, grinning widely. "Did Charles Stringham bring you here? Such a friend of our hostess is Charles, isn't he? I heard that you and Charles had not been seeing so much of each other as you used in the old days when you were both undergraduates."

He was obviously well aware that Stringham's life had changed greatly from the period of which he spoke, and he probably knew, too, as his words implied, that Stringham and I had not met for years. On such stray pieces of information, the c.u.mulative effect not to be despised, Sillery's intelligence system was built up. As to the effectiveness of this system, opinion, as I have said before, differed greatly. At any rate, Sillery himself believed implicitly in his own powers, ceaselessly collecting, sorting, and collating small items in connection with the personal relationships of the people he knew; or, at least, knew about. No doubt a few of these units of information turned out to be of value in prosecuting schemes in which, for one reason or another, he might himself become suddenly interested.

I admitted that I had not seen Stringham for some little time before that evening, but I did not feel it necessary to reveal in detail to Sillery the circ.u.mstances that had brought me to the house of Mrs. Andriadis.

"You stayed too long in the company of that gentleman with the equivocal reputation," said Sillery, giving my arm a pinch. "People have to be careful about such things. They do, indeed. Can't think how he got to this very respectable party-but don't let's talk about such matters. I have just been having a most enlightening chat with Prince Theodoric."

"The Levantine young man?"

"A dark young prince with curly hair," said Sillery, chuckling. "That's quite a Tennysonian line, isn't it? Handsome, if it were not for that rather too obtrusive nose. One would never guess him descended from Queen Victoria. Perhaps he isn't. But we mustn't be scandalous. A very clever family, his Royal House-and well connected, too."

I remembered that there had been some talk of Prince Theodoric at the Walpole-Wilsons'. Although aware that his visit was in progress, I could not recall much about the Prince himself, nor the problems that he was called upon to discuss. Remarks made by Widmerpool and Tompsitt on the subject earlier that evening had become somewhat confused in my mind with the substance of an article in one of the "weeklies," skimmed through recently in a club, in which the writer a.s.sociated "the question of industrial development of base metals"-the phrase that had caught Archie Gilbert's ear at dinner-with "a final settlement in Macedonia." The same periodical, in its editorial notes, had spoken, rather slightingly, of "the part Prince Theodoric might be hoped to play on the Balkan chess-board," adding that "informed circles in Belgrade, Bucharest, and Athens are watching this young man's movements closely; while scarcely less interest has been evoked in Sofia and Tirana, in spite of a certain parade of aloofness in the latter capital. Only in Ankara is scepticism freely expressed as to the likelihood of the links of an acceptable solution being welded upon the, by now happily obsolescent, anvil of throne-room diplomacy," Sillery's description of the Prince as "well connected" made me think again, involuntarily, of Uncle Giles, who would no doubt, within the same reference, also have commented on Prince Theodoric's employment of "influence" in the advancement of his own or his country's interests.

"Mrs. Andriadis must be at least a tiny bit flattered to find H.R.H. here to-night," said Sillery. "Although, of course, our hostess, as you are probably aware, is no stranger to Royalty in its lighter moments. I expect it is the first time, too, that the good Theodoric has been at the same party as one of our coloured cousins. However, he is broad-minded. It is that touch of Coburgh blood."

"Is he over here for long?"

"Perhaps a month or two. Is it aluminium? Something like that. Hope we are paying a fair price. Some of us try and organise public opinion, but there are always people who think we should have our own way, no matter what, aren't there? However, I expect all that is safe in the hands of such a great and good man as Sir Magnus Donners-with two such great and good a.s.sistants as Charles Stringham and Bill Truscott."

He chuckled again heartily at his last comment.

"Was Prince Theodoric educated over here?"

Sillery shook his head and sighed.

"Tried to get him," he said. "But it couldn't be did. All the same, I think we may be going to have something almost as good."

"Another brother?"

"Better than that. Theodoric is interested in the proposed Donners-Brebner Fellowships. Picked students to come to the university at the Donners-Brebner Company's expense. After all, we have to do something for them, if we take away their metal, don't we?"

"Will you organise the Fellowships, Sillers?"

"The Prince was good enough to ask my advice on certain academical points."

"And you told him how it should be done?"

"Said I would help him as much as he liked, if he promised not to give me one of those great gawdy decorations that I hate so much, because I never know how to put them on right when I have to go out all dressed up to grand parties."

"Did he agree to that?"

"Also said a few words 'bout de political sitchivashun,' remarked Sillery, ignoring the question and grinning more broadly than ever. "Dull things for de poor Prince, I'm 'fraid. 'Spect he's 'joying hisself more now."

He gave no explanation of this sudden metamorphosis into confused memories of Uncle Remus and the diction of the old plantations, aroused perhaps at that moment by sight of the Negro, who pa.s.sed by, now in friendly conversation with Pilgrim. Possibly the impersonation was merely some d.i.c.kensian old fogey. It was impossible to say with certainty. Probably the act had, in truth, no meaning at all. These sudden character parts were a recognised element in Sillery's technique of attacking life. There could be no doubt that he was delighted with the result of his recent conversation, whatever the ground covered; though he was probably correct in his suggestion that the Prince was more happily occupied at that moment with the girls than in earlier discussion of economic or diplomatic problems.

However, apart from the fact that he had presumably initiated the counter-move that had finally displaced Sillery, Prince Theodoric, as it happened, was showing little, if any, outward sign of this presumed partiality. He was gravely watching the two young women between whom he stood, as if attempting to make up his mind which of this couple had more to offer. I could not help feeling some envy at his monopoly of the companionship of such an attractive pair, each in her contrasted looks seeming to personify a style of beauty both exquisite and notably fashionable at that moment: the latter perhaps a minor, even irrelevant, consideration, but one hard to resist. I inquired the names of these friends of Prince Theodoric.

"Well-known nymphs," said Sillery, sn.i.g.g.e.ring. "The smaller one is Mrs. Wentworth-quite a famous person in her way-sister of Jack Vowchurch. Mixed up in the divorce of Charles's sister. I seem to remember her name was also mentioned in the Derwent.w.a.ter case, though not culpably. The tall and statuesque is Lady Ardgla.s.s. She was, I believe, a mannequin before her marriage."

He began to move off, nodding, and rubbing his hands together, deriving too much pleasure from the party to waste any more valuable time from the necessarily limited period of its prolongation. I should have liked to make the acquaintance of one or both ladies, or at least to hear more of them, but I could tell from Sillery's manner that he knew neither personally, or was, at best, far from being at ease with them, so that to apply for an introduction-should they ever leave Prince Theodoric's side-would, therefore, be quite useless. Mrs. Wentworth was, outwardly, the more remarkable of the pair, on account of the conspicuous force of her personality: a characteristic accentuated by the simplicity of her dress, short curly hair, and look of infinite slyness. Lady Ardgla.s.s was more like a caryatid, or ship's figurehead, though for that reason no less superb. Seeing no immediate prospect of achieving a meeting with either, I found my way to another room, where I suddenly came upon Gypsy Jones, who appeared to have taken a good deal to drink since her arrival.

"What's happened to Edgar?" she asked clamorously.

She was more untidy than ever, and appeared to be in a great state of excitement: even near to tears.

"Who is Edgar?"

"Thought you said you'd known him since you were a kid!"

"Do you mean Mr. Deacon?"

She began to laugh uproariously at this question.

"And your other friend," she said. "Where did you pick that up?"

Laughter was at that moment modified by a slight, and quickly mastered, attack of hiccups. Her demeanour was becoming more noticeably hysterical. The state she was in might easily lead to an awkward incident. I was so accustomed to the general principle of people finding Widmerpool odd that I could hardly regard her question as even hypercritical. It was, in any case, no more arbitrary an inquiry, so far as it went, than Stringham's on the subject of Mr. Deacon; although long-standing friendship made Stringham's form of words more permissible. However, Gypsy Jones's comment, when thought of later, brought home the impossibility of explaining Widmerpool's personality at all briefly, even to a sympathetic audience. His case was not, of course, unique. He was merely one single instance among many, of the fact that certain acquaintances remain firmly fixed within this or that person's particular orbit; a law which seems to lead inexorably to the conclusion that the often repeated saying that people can "choose their friends" is true only in a most strictly limited degree.

However, Gypsy Jones was the last person to be expected to relish discussion upon so hypothetical a subject, even if the proposition had then occurred to me, or she been in a fit state to argue its points. Although she seemed to be enjoying the party, even to the extent of being in sight of hysteria, she had evidently also reached the stage when moving to another spot had become an absolute necessity to her; not because she was in any way dissatisfied with the surroundings in which she found herself, but on account of the coercive dictation of her own nerves, not to be denied in their insistence that a change of scene must take place. I was familiar with a similar spirit of unrest that sometimes haunted Barbara.

"I want to find Edgar and go to The Merry Thought."

She clung on to me desperately, whether as an affectionate gesture, a means of encouraging sympathy, or merely to maintain her balance, I was uncertain. The condition of excitement which she had reached to some extent communicated itself to me, for her flushed face rather improved her appearance, and she had lost all her earlier ill-humour.

"Why don't you come to The Merry Thought?" she said. "I got a bit worked up a moment ago, I'm feeling better now."

Just for a second I wondered whether I would not fall in with this suggestion, but the implications seemed so many, and so varied, that I decided against accompanying her. I felt also that there might be yet more to experience in Mrs. Andriadis's house; and I was not uninfluenced by the fact that I had, so far as I could remember, only a pound on me.

"Well, if Edgar can't be found, I shall go without him," said Gypsy Jones, speaking as if such a deplorable lack of gallantry was unexpected in Mr. Deacon.

She seemed to have recovered her composure. While she proceeded down the stairs, somewhat unsteadily, I called after her, over the banisters, a reminder that her copies of War Never Pays! War Never Pays! should preferably not be allowed to lie forgotten under the chair in the hall, as I had no wish to share, even to a small degree, any responsibility for having imported that publication into Mrs. Andriadis's establishment. Gypsy Jones disappeared from sight. It was doubtful whether she had heard this admonition. I felt, perhaps rather ign.o.bly, that she were better out of the house. should preferably not be allowed to lie forgotten under the chair in the hall, as I had no wish to share, even to a small degree, any responsibility for having imported that publication into Mrs. Andriadis's establishment. Gypsy Jones disappeared from sight. It was doubtful whether she had heard this admonition. I felt, perhaps rather ign.o.bly, that she were better out of the house.

Returning through one of the doorways a minute or two later, I collided with Widmerpool, also red in the face, and with hair, from which customary grease had perhaps been dried out by sugar, ruffled into a kind of cone at the top of his head. He, too, seemed to have drunk more than he was accustomed.