Chapter 3

Moreover, he was so very conscious of Lady Ursula, sitting opposite him
at the little table in a recess by the window. A card with “Reserved”
printed upon it remained propped against a vase full of purple and white
asters. Yes, she too was so confoundedly reserved, such a woman of
elevation and of quality, poised like Diana before his moon-faced
homage. For the last three months he had been trying so hard to place
himself on some sort of feeling of equality with her, to impress her, to
realise himself as Conrad Pybus, Esq., of Chlois Court.

Then—consider the immoderate obstinacy of that absurd old man! How
could a fellow have foreseen such a damnable coincidence? To hear
yourself saying: “Hallo—Dad,” to a little old fellow who cleaned the
boots, and saying it in the presence of that most elusive and ironic
goddess. Besides—it wasn’t as though he and Probyn had not attempted to
do something for the old curmudgeon.

The head-waiter was standing at Mr. Conrad’s elbow.

“Lunch, sir?”

“Take that card away.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I ordered lunch by wire—a special lunch.”

“Yes, sir. I know all about it, sir. The wine is on ice.”

George, of the Saracen’s Head, had a soothing voice, and a sleepy and
humourous eye. He knew his world. Obviously the gentleman was in a
fractious mood, being the kind of new gentleman who raised his voice and
made a fuss when things were not going well. George’s sleepy eye
observed the lady. She was putting one of the asters in place with an
air of doing what came natural to her. Her face had the glimmer of an
inward smile.

“Soup or hors d’œuvres, sir?”

Mr. Pybus was posed. He bungled his French, and realised that he had
bungled it when his lady made her choice. And he was most absurdly
annoyed. First—a wild oddity of a father bobbing up like the ghost of
his own past, and then a fool of a waiter tricking him into speaking of
hors doovres! He became throaty and self-conscious.

“I must apologise for this—place. Had it recommended to me by Pelham.
Doesn’t do to take an _ipse dixit_.”

She looked him straight in the face.

“Don’t you like it?”

“Flyblown—like most of these country pubs.”

That something had upset him was as obvious as was the heavy white
solidity of his countenance. She wondered what it was. Not that it
mattered. The loutishness in certain sorts of men is easily
rediscovered. He glared; he examined the table silver; almost she
expected to see him take up a spoon and polish it with a corner of the
tablecloth. And she was amused. Always she had loved mischief, but
mischief without malice, and it seemed to her that she was watching a
materialisation of the real Conrad Pybus, of the man who sat in his
office chair in his shirt-sleeves and smoked rank cigars, and bullied
people. His voice appeared to slip back into his throat and to become
thick and aggressive. She was vividly aware of his crudities, of the
inherent vulgarities of the man, and suddenly she wondered how she had
been persuaded to spend the day in his car. She hadn’t been persuaded.
She had been provoked by an impulse, an ironical curiosity. And here she
was sitting opposite to him, and feeling the hot waves of his extreme
discomfort pouring over her. Moreover, what was the use of ordering the
wine to be iced if you had not been schooled to suppress the common
heats of the body?

She glanced over her shoulder at the window.

“Don’t you find it very hot in here?”

He did. He was perspiring. He expended a further portion of his heat
upon the waiter.

“Open that window, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The window was opened, but he continued to give her the impression of a
man lunching in a London grill-room on a hot August day. She surmised
that the salad would be flat, and it was. And again he expended more
heat upon the waiter, quite unnecessary heat. She was feeling the
freshness of the hill-town air whispering round her shoulders, and she
had all the essential and clear coolness of her breed, but she began to
be infected by his flushes and his discomforts. It was like travelling
in a stuffy and crowded railway carriage next to some stout person who
mopped and panted.

“Beastly lunch—I’m afraid—I’m sorry.”

She assured him that the lunch was excellent. But what had upset him?
Not that she asked the question. She had ceased from wishing to ask Mr.
Conrad Pybus any questions. She had become too conscious of his
incongruities. He continued to remain in a heat of frettings and
apologetics, and while applying the coolness of her easy voice to the
fevered forehead of conversation, she considered Mr. Conrad Pybus as a
social specimen. He reminded her of some common child who had been
carefully drilled and prompted for some social occasion, and whose
niceness crumbled and fell to pieces under the stress of sudden
publicity. She saw him as a moist, awkward figure, eating with uneasy
ferocity, using its table napkin too frequently on that very black
moustache, pulling bread to pieces with its bolster fingers. She was
reminded of the simile of a man sitting upon a hot-plate. He fizzled.

“Hang it—this meat’s a bit off.”

“Is it? Really—I think you must be just a little unfortunate.”

Her incorrigible self was conscious of inward whisperings. A bit off!
Oh, delicious and splurging Pybus! Almost she feared for his aspirates.
And with the cool air on her neck and shoulders she thought of Chlois
Court, and his pictures, and his library with its multitudinous classics
all bound in red leather. Culture—culture spelt with a very big K,
Teutonic, a little pathetic. And yet, in spite of his carefulness and
his contrivings, the trotter protruded in proximity to the trough.

But she began to wish for the end of the meal. She decided that the
day’s adventure had reached its climax, and that he needed cooling under
the trees of Chlois Court.

“Really—it has been a delightful drive.”

He asked her if she would care to wander round Castle Craven. There was
the castle, and the Master Mostyn museum—“Pre-historic stuff, you
know.” Smiling her own smile she assured him that she had to be back for
tea. Could he manage it? Of course he could manage it. He showed a
sudden restiveness. He brought out a black leather wallet and put it
back again. He asked her if she would like a liqueur with her coffee.

“A Kummel, please.”

He called the waiter.

“Two Kummels and two coffees.”

“In the lounge, sir?”

“No—here.”

His restiveness seemed to increase. Frowning over his Stilton he
actually missed a remark of hers.

“Wonder if you’d excuse me a moment. I’m a bit doubtful about the
petrol.”

“Of course.”

“My chap’s a careless idiot. There’s a petrol pump in the yard. I’ll get
the fellow in charge to fill me up.”

“Please do.”

He placed an open cigarette-case in front of her, but forgot the
matches.

“Won’t be a minute.”