Chapter 2

It must, therefore, be a quarter to one. The servants’ dinner began at
half-past twelve, and the punctuality of the house was as reliable as
the sun himself. Sebastian grinned; then he sighed. For the approach of
luncheon meant that he must abandon the roof and its high freedom, with
the surveying glance it gave him of house, garden, and park, and go
downstairs to be engulfed once more in the bevy of his mother’s guests.
Week-ends were always like this, throughout the summer, though he,
Sebastian, who was at Oxford, suffered from them only during his summer
holidays. For his sister it was different; she was always at home, and
even now probably was having her hair tweaked and frizzed, till, as her
brother said, she could hardly shut her mouth. On Monday and
Tuesday—unless it rained—her hair would still be curly; by Wednesday
it would again be lank.

But although it was easy to get up it was not so easy, as Sebastian
found, and was to find as life went on, to get down. He hung for a long
time in perilous hesitation over the well of the little court. He could
not make up his mind to jump. Supposing he missed his footing? shot
between the battlements and crashed into the depths below? The air was
good, warmed by the sun; and the ground was good, when the foot was on
it; but he hung now in a false position between the two; a tentative
movement made a tile slip. It slipped with a single, cautionary rattle.
The heraldic leopards watched him sarcastically, holding their shields.
Overhead, the clock suddenly struck One, and the sound reverberated all
round the roofs, coming to rest again in the clock-tower, after its
journey of warning in that solitary punctuation of time. The pigeons
rose in a scatter, only to settle once more on the gables, and there to
resume their courtships. There was nothing for it but to jump. Sebastian
jumped.

* * * * *

He was late for luncheon, and his mother looked at him disapprovingly as
he slipped into his place at one of the little tables. His mother was
annoyed, but she idolised her son, and could not deny that he was very
good-looking. His good looks were of the kind that surprised her afresh
every time he came into the room. He was so sleek, so dark, and so
olive-skinned. So personable. Potini, that sly, agreeable, sensuous
Italian, hit the nail on the head when he murmured to her that Sebastian
enjoyed all the charm of patrician adolescence. Patrician adolescence!
Yes, thought his mother, who could never have found the words for
herself; yes, that’s Sebastian. He could be half an hour late for
luncheon, and one would still forgive him.

There were thirty people to luncheon; but two places remained empty;
they were destined for two people who were motoring down from London and
who, naturally, had so far failed to arrive. The duchess never waited
for motorists. They must take their chance. And, to-day being Sunday,
they would not be able to send the usual telegram saying that they had
broken down.

Conversation stopped for a moment when Sebastian came in, and one or two
people laughed. They were amused; not unkindly. Luncheon was laid in the
banqueting-hall at small tables of four and six, the formality of a long
table being reserved for dinner. The hall was large and high, with a
flagged floor; coats of arms stained the windows, and the heraldic
leopards stood rampant in carved and painted wood against the panelling;
antlers of Vandycks; two Bacchanalian little vines, dwarfed but bearing
bunches of grapes of natural size, stood in gold wine-coolers on either
side of the door; they were a well-known speciality of Chevron.
Sebastian found himself at a table with Sir Harry Tremaine, Lady
Roehampton, and the old Duchess of Hull. He liked Lady Roehampton, and
was faintly troubled by her presence; in her large Leghorn hat, with
nestling roses and blue velvet streamers, and a muslin fichu like that
of Marie Antoinette, she looked exactly like her own portrait by
Sargent, which had been the sensation of that year’s Academy, and it was
not difficult to believe that she was popularly accepted as a
professional beauty. The old Duchess of Hull he could not abide. She was
heavily but badly made-up, with a triangle of red on either cheek, and,
since her sense of direction was no longer very sure, she made bad shots
with her fork which wiped the enamel off her face all round her mouth,
and left the old yellow skin coming through. But her tongue was as sharp
and witty as ever, and moreover she played an admirable hand at Bridge.
No hostess could afford to omit her from a party. “Well, young man?” she
barked at Sebastian; but Lady Roehampton murmured, “Well, Sebastian?”
and smiled at him as though she knew exactly what he had been doing.