Text
stringlengths 1
42.7k
⌀ | Speaker
stringclasses 528
values | Text_10_word_context
stringlengths 44
42.8k
| Text_20_word_context
stringlengths 74
42.8k
| Text_100_word_context
stringlengths 291
43.2k
| Text_200_word_context
stringlengths 562
43.7k
| Text_400_word_context
stringlengths 1.08k
44.7k
| Text_800_word_context
stringlengths 2.14k
46.9k
| Text_1600_word_context
stringlengths 4.15k
51.3k
| Text_variable_400_to_1200_word_context
stringlengths 1.3k
48k
| Book
stringclasses 47
values |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."
|
Brenda
|
day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on
|
hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're
|
who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know.
|
a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone
|
did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess
|
when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for
|
the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a
|
and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie."<|quote|>"Oh well, the flat won't be long now."</|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * *
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."
|
Marjorie
|
flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't
|
me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't
|
plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange
|
Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance
|
was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in
|
see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a
|
a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had
|
great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now."<|quote|>"And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."</|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."
|
Brenda
|
you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I
|
on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on
|
acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about
|
a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen
|
furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of
|
Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is
|
went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account
|
it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake."<|quote|>"It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."</|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."
|
Marjorie
|
you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And
|
ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There
|
one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But
|
will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema.
|
inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner
|
one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate
|
drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as
|
a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver."<|quote|>"It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."</|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh, Tony's all right."
|
Brenda
|
it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--"
|
isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."
|
about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of
|
well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an
|
not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an
|
those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so
|
because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."
|
pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony."<|quote|>"Oh, Tony's all right."</|quote|>"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"And if there's a row--"
|
Marjorie
|
Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row."
|
think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there
|
day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly
|
above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and
|
Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver,
|
going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever
|
right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope
|
of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right."<|quote|>"And if there's a row--"</|quote|>"There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"There won't be a row."
|
Brenda
|
"And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there
|
Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan
|
"Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure.
|
who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most
|
her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had
|
that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell
|
the one that had worms is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."
|
the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--"<|quote|>"There won't be a row."</|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."
|
Marjorie
|
"There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to
|
"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There
|
be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were
|
covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose
|
pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven
|
can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made
|
is quite well again." "Nothing much has happened," said Tony. "We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."
|
his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row."<|quote|>"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."</|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."
|
Brenda
|
been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in
|
want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with
|
just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and
|
"I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject
|
bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had
|
and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days.
|
do in London all this time?" "Me? Oh, I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the
|
an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things."<|quote|>"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."</|quote|>"There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"There was never much in that,"
|
Marjorie
|
to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the
|
things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion
|
only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a
|
"but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For
|
set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock
|
the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things
|
been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she
|
to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley."<|quote|>"There was never much in that,"</|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.
|
No speaker
|
was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has
|
you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John
|
cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the
|
Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear...
|
a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men
|
you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the
|
you the truth." "Buying things?" "Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing." "What's that?" "No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all." "You've bought a Pekingese." "Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I _want_ to dreadfully." "Go on." "Tony, I've found a flat." "Well, you'd better lose it again, quick." "All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile, try not to brood about it." "I shan't give it another thought." "What's a flat, daddy?" * * * * * Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup. "I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?" "Mmmm." "You haven't signed any papers yet, have you?" "Oh no." Brenda shook her head emphatically. "Then no great harm's done." Tony began to fill his pipe. Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. "Listen, you haven't been brooding?" "No." "Because, you see, when you say 'flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. _You_ mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining-rooms and drawing-rooms and servants' bedrooms... don't you, Tony?" "More or less." "_Exactly._ Now _I_ mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its
|
set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that,"<|quote|>said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.</|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first
|
of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found
|
a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_
|
they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to
|
the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many
|
her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond
|
You see the difference? Now a woman I know--" "Who?" "Just a woman--has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make the bed when required, what d'you think of that?" "I see." "Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages? You're always going to the club, and that costs more, and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me, and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping," "Why didn't you stay the night," "you say," "instead of killing yourself?" "Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous
|
floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight.<|quote|>"Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."</|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.
|
No speaker
|
afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."
|
sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try
|
week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air
|
think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about
|
comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy
|
the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all
|
flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr Cruttwell. How's that?" "D'you really want this thing?" "Mmm." "Well, I'll have to see. We _might_ manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here." "I don't really deserve it," she said, clinching the matter. "I've been carrying on _anyhow_ this week." * * * * * Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London, saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair--there was not room for more. Mrs Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed-warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a Frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance,
|
autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much."<|quote|>And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.</|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I'm talking from the flat."
|
Brenda
|
usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try
|
hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very
|
to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the
|
bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front
|
to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him
|
or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the
|
bound French eighteenth-century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered
|
she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton.<|quote|>"I'm talking from the flat."</|quote|>"Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh, ah."
|
Tony Last
|
"I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound
|
usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for
|
the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap
|
boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and
|
and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the
|
with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts).
|
massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had
|
news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat."<|quote|>"Oh, ah."</|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."
|
Brenda
|
from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there
|
telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells
|
where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard
|
about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of
|
even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of
|
nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy
|
and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid
|
to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah."<|quote|>"_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."</|quote|>"What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"What's it like?"
|
Tony Last
|
It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good
|
do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and
|
not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed
|
every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many
|
round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send
|
would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he
|
all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned
|
that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me."<|quote|>"What's it like?"</|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."
|
Brenda
|
for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony,
|
sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about
|
perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having
|
evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the
|
this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton:
|
thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch
|
had been grouped in the shop for her as a "suggestion". Mrs Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense. Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. "I'm sorry to be pompous," she said one morning, "but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about
|
tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?"<|quote|>"Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."</|quote|>"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"You don't say so."
|
Tony Last
|
all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice
|
the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so
|
on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't
|
hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was
|
came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's
|
good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The
|
"but I just don't want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded
|
world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"
|
Brenda
|
_lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of
|
in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so
|
there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had
|
as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No
|
made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished
|
always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log
|
want your Mr Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie." "Oh well, the flat won't be long now." "And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake." "It's just that you don't like Mr Beaver." "It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by
|
or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so."<|quote|>"Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"</|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Yes... as a matter of fact."
|
Tony Last
|
It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope
|
account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."
|
be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand
|
rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must
|
and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half
|
_very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against
|
on Tony." "Oh, Tony's all right." "And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of
|
the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?"<|quote|>"Yes... as a matter of fact."</|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."
|
Brenda
|
as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop
|
wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming
|
so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to
|
and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." *
|
time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet
|
sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of
|
"And if there's a row--" "There won't be a row." "You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might
|
realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact."<|quote|>"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."</|quote|>"Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire).
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Three minutes, please."
|
Unknowable
|
it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are
|
"Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at
|
sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it
|
rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * *
|
though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the
|
you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun;
|
"You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her.
|
spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you."<|quote|>"Three minutes, please."</|quote|>"Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Must stop now."
|
Brenda
|
like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?"
|
so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night,
|
lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony
|
the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and
|
water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles,
|
I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the
|
If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent
|
poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please."<|quote|>"Must stop now."</|quote|>"When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"When are you coming back?"
|
Tony Last
|
minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night,
|
was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot
|
to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm
|
are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to
|
yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which
|
of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces,
|
I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring
|
friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now."<|quote|>"When are you coming back?"</|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."
|
Brenda
|
"When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"
|
minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time
|
room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let
|
won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins.
|
everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a
|
the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the
|
think I've been helping to arrange things." "I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and
|
for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?"<|quote|>"Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."</|quote|>"What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"What a lot of talk,"
|
John Beaver
|
once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time
|
you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she
|
put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty,
|
street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a
|
new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for
|
an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated,
|
"I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering
|
evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet."<|quote|>"What a lot of talk,"</|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.
|
No speaker
|
"What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony
|
once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm
|
on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * *
|
night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant
|
less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of
|
for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions
|
you about Robin Beaseley." "There was never much in that," said Marjorie. But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present.
|
on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk,"<|quote|>said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.</|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"
|
Brenda
|
he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of
|
him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry
|
minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going
|
me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was
|
very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly
|
done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive
|
morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the
|
always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.<|quote|>"Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"</|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."
|
John Beaver
|
Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you,
|
disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like
|
back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay
|
hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery
|
are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal
|
Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And
|
with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise
|
how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?"<|quote|>"I'm not awfully fond of Tony."</|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."
|
Brenda
|
not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No
|
to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You
|
my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and
|
had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which
|
present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went
|
for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched
|
acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such
|
almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony."<|quote|>"Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."</|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"
|
John Beaver
|
doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me.
|
worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear...
|
she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's
|
It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the
|
hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers
|
and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many
|
evening before at a restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank
|
talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_."<|quote|>"_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"</|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."
|
Brenda
|
all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * *
|
he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were
|
had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom
|
it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with
|
a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed
|
Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since
|
restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is
|
present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?"<|quote|>"No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.
|
No speaker
|
very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for
|
must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying
|
to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the
|
you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,
|
is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family,
|
him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so
|
most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right or left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips. Mrs Beaver made no bones about her delight. "Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but _that isn't the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you
|
and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.</|quote|>"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"How difficult it is for us,"
|
The Vicar
|
his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his
|
It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their
|
its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun;
|
a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening
|
to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their
|
all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one,
|
the same thing_. I've felt for a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as
|
"You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached.<|quote|>"How difficult it is for us,"</|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,
|
No speaker
|
difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is
|
parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the
|
menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the
|
a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of
|
as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not
|
lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in
|
a long time a Lack of Something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable
|
is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us,"<|quote|>he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,</|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"
|
The Vicar
|
chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing
|
their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,
|
and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and
|
evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger
|
one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance,
|
basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her.
|
Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a _very_ affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear... to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half
|
sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves,<|quote|>"to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"</|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,
|
No speaker
|
ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the
|
heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic
|
tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after
|
It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family,
|
the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right
|
with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for
|
to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other
|
wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,"<|quote|>said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,</|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."
|
The Vicar
|
the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the
|
said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The
|
harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it
|
"How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not
|
a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her,
|
threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my
|
I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much." And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if
|
smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons,<|quote|>"we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."</|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,
|
No speaker
|
jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings
|
the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only
|
we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing
|
chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present
|
deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise
|
Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda
|
Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost, of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. "How on earth has _he_ got away with it?" they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Bratt's, they made room for him at the bar and said, "Well, old boy, how about one?" * * * * * Brenda rang up Tony every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new--walls, sheets, curtains--and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron. That evening as usual she telephoned to Hetton. "I'm talking from the flat." "Oh, ah." "_Darling_, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me." "What's it like?" "Well, there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan
|
which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..."<|quote|>And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying,</|quote|>"Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,
|
No speaker
|
separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never
|
rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much.
|
for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much
|
by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him
|
hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it
|
paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."
|
and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night... but it's _lovely_." "You don't say so." "Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting--front door and a latch-key and all... And someone sent me a lot of flowers to-day--so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?" "Yes... as a matter of fact." "Darling, I did so hope it was... how like you." "Three minutes, please." "Must stop now." "When are you coming back?" "Almost at once. Good night, my sweet." "What a lot of talk," said Beaver. All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect. "Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?" "I'm not awfully fond of Tony." "Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you _at all_." "_Doesn't_ he? Why not?" "No one does except me. You must get that clear... it's very odd that _I_ should." * * * * * Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton: Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas-tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes,
|
way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,"<|quote|>but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,</|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."
|
Brenda
|
showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about
|
read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He
|
page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself
|
dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"
|
have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who
|
construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present.
|
sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole
|
realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying,<|quote|>"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."</|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.
|
No speaker
|
was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make
|
me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."
|
to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and
|
day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's
|
platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."
|
never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now
|
fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and
|
relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present."<|quote|>Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.</|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."
|
Brenda
|
He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't
|
about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you
|
lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North
|
or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all
|
came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why
|
cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I
|
their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said
|
so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.<|quote|>"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."</|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."
|
Tony Last
|
it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of
|
"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted
|
letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought
|
It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"
|
you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda
|
they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches
|
impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large cro?te of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't
|
lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them."<|quote|>"No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."</|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.
|
No speaker
|
in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very
|
seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do
|
like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver
|
dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with
|
I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already
|
discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III
|
he was particularly fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxing-day evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went round the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on
|
dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks."<|quote|>They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.</|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I'll tell you something very odd,"
|
Tony Last
|
the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you
|
first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our
|
Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took
|
it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who
|
They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it
|
manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It
|
choir came up and sang carols in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just
|
but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.<|quote|>"I'll tell you something very odd,"</|quote|>he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
he said.
|
No speaker
|
tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is
|
news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend
|
and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to
|
Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind
|
day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he
|
verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not
|
in the pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that.
|
a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Who do you think is here?"
|
Tony Last
|
something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."
|
Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh,
|
fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,
|
become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have
|
is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there
|
herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine
|
pitch-pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might
|
she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said.<|quote|>"Who do you think is here?"</|quote|>"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Who?"
|
Brenda
|
do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's
|
very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I
|
to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All
|
Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been
|
love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was
|
about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and
|
punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have
|
to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?"<|quote|>"Who?"</|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Our old friend Beaver."
|
Tony Last
|
you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh,
|
odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten
|
him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since
|
He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd
|
We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a
|
the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening,
|
and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going
|
the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?"<|quote|>"Our old friend Beaver."</|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Why's that odd particularly?"
|
Brenda
|
"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd
|
do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't
|
and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last.
|
away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's
|
to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went
|
in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in
|
vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very
|
disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver."<|quote|>"Why's that odd particularly?"</|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"
|
Tony Last
|
Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver
|
here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and
|
at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly
|
I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda
|
after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she
|
will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who
|
Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were greatly attached. "How difficult it is for us," he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank
|
ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?"<|quote|>"Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"</|quote|>"I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I daresay."
|
Brenda
|
as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be
|
think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains
|
the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and
|
They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each
|
dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to
|
She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been
|
his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot.
|
when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?"<|quote|>"I daresay."</|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,
|
No speaker
|
did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since
|
sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's
|
to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have
|
the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her
|
later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh
|
forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in
|
who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, "to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never
|
to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay."<|quote|>Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,</|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."
|
Tony Last
|
agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well,
|
and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to
|
"Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered
|
to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."
|
hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of
|
that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out
|
is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a
|
for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said,<|quote|>"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."</|quote|>"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Yes, I know."
|
John Beaver
|
taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let
|
we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."
|
all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was
|
North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started
|
this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters
|
she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and
|
drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You
|
poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"How?"
|
Tony Last
|
in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it
|
last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony
|
hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there;
|
Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the
|
she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again?
|
posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering
|
have only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know
|
it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know."<|quote|>"How?"</|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."
|
John Beaver
|
London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and
|
Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You
|
you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this
|
was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that
|
showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics.
|
nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been
|
only the harsh glare of an alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all
|
later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?"<|quote|>"Well, my mother let it to her, you know."</|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.
|
No speaker
|
it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who
|
"How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I
|
did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less
|
hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired
|
never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_
|
had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come.
|
of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die
|
of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know."<|quote|>Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.</|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."
|
Tony Last
|
and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half
|
know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why
|
be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a
|
tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring
|
was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now
|
interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction
|
and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and
|
can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this.<|quote|>"You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."</|quote|>"No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"No, darling, that's why."
|
Brenda
|
so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered
|
I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the
|
saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him.
|
that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home
|
"Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about
|
came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club
|
ox and ass of Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I
|
manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known."<|quote|>"No, darling, that's why."</|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,
|
No speaker
|
known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a
|
been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's
|
taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was
|
I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no,
|
make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures
|
her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February,
|
Bethlehem," said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, "we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant..." And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with
|
I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why."<|quote|>Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband,</|quote|>"I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,
|
No speaker
|
It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year
|
a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with
|
why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I
|
"Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know,
|
North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned
|
your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen
|
he had heard them year after year since Mr Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. "The ravening tiger and exotic camel" had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games. These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure
|
this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know."<|quote|>Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,</|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I've made a New Year resolution."
|
Brenda
|
breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending
|
morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh
|
had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all
|
very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan
|
supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their
|
had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly,
|
for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in
|
I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony,<|quote|>"I've made a New Year resolution."</|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"
|
Tony Last
|
made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse.
|
she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I
|
twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to
|
had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts
|
and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat
|
without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how
|
her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?...
|
said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution."<|quote|>"Anything to do with spending more time at home?"</|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."
|
Brenda
|
spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought
|
resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something
|
there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I
|
her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather
|
said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their
|
school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at
|
up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover, she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port.
|
his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?"<|quote|>"Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."</|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."
|
Tony Last
|
take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You
|
it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I
|
together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could
|
never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the
|
I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a
|
letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes,
|
lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but
|
you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something."<|quote|>"Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."</|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"
|
Brenda
|
I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the
|
of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was
|
morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating,
|
but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering
|
to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."
|
"I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with
|
construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous, for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind, quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, "Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor," but the uneasiness persisted, and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem
|
a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over."<|quote|>"No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"</|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"It's one better than the bone-setters,"
|
Tony Last
|
it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how
|
girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER
|
course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and
|
I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone
|
subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a
|
was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought
|
she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather.
|
was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"<|quote|>"It's one better than the bone-setters,"</|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.
|
No speaker
|
one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night,
|
rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in
|
some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through
|
something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about
|
she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was
|
the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the
|
of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one, from Thursday until Monday. She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. _Darling Brenda_, he wrote. _Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was_ sweet _of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself,
|
Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters,"<|quote|>Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.</|quote|>"Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Anyone here?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr
|
the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."
|
finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and
|
towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and
|
University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly
|
to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of
|
you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she
|
"All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.<|quote|>"Anyone here?"</|quote|>"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell."
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.
|
No speaker
|
Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come
|
"Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was
|
round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.
|
cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying
|
"It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going
|
subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will
|
a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends her love. We shall be leaving to-morrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold._ It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to
|
flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room."<|quote|>Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.</|quote|>"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Hullo,"
|
Tony Last
|
through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and
|
and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some
|
dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been
|
there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."
|
eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to
|
the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?"
|
there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak
|
III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy.<|quote|>"Hullo,"</|quote|>he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
he said.
|
No speaker
|
a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."
|
three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since
|
Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked
|
round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got
|
in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me
|
back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think
|
at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her."
|
lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Chucked? Come and join me."
|
Tony Last
|
of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since
|
the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the
|
him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the
|
walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"
|
low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she
|
a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you
|
bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice.
|
mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said.<|quote|>"Chucked? Come and join me."</|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.
|
No speaker
|
"Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again.
|
of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time
|
he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying
|
tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up
|
dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You
|
they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said,
|
had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it. He wrote a large, school-girlish hand with wide spaces between the lines. Brenda felt a little sick when she read this letter but she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like
|
reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me."<|quote|>It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.</|quote|>"Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Been chucked?"
|
Tony Last
|
sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's
|
and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask
|
"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've
|
dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being
|
ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there
|
again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough
|
she showed it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No,
|
standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.<|quote|>"Been chucked?"</|quote|>asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
asked Tony again.
|
No speaker
|
at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time
|
Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."
|
said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat
|
found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton
|
until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much
|
thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know...
|
it to Marjorie, saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new."
|
it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?"<|quote|>asked Tony again.</|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've
|
sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot.
|
and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room
|
in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came
|
a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of
|
over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often.
|
saying, "I can't complain, he's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd
|
large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again.<|quote|>"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."</|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny."
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."
|
Tony Last
|
I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left
|
"Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered
|
seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing
|
and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing
|
are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit
|
I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm
|
much. And anyway it was a damned silly present." Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this
|
know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out."<|quote|>"Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."</|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.
|
No speaker
|
lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the
|
I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."
|
wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly
|
propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very
|
but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion
|
seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight,
|
his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away. "Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you."
|
_took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing."<|quote|>They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.</|quote|>"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Just come up for the night,"
|
Tony Last
|
Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've
|
what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't
|
John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I
|
three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it
|
club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have
|
about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been
|
I'll make it all right with them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where
|
home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.<|quote|>"Just come up for the night,"</|quote|>said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Tony.
|
No speaker
|
come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a
|
and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well,
|
at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed
|
bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's
|
So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored...
|
I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I
|
them." "No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was
|
was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night,"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck."
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Staying here."
|
Tony Last
|
for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now,
|
another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has.
|
table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with
|
Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to
|
sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll
|
done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the
|
I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are
|
went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony.<|quote|>"Staying here."</|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't
|
"Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we
|
chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd
|
he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she
|
round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway,
|
course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap
|
I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm
|
and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here."<|quote|>"You've got a flat now, haven't you?"</|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."
|
Tony Last
|
a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out
|
Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her
|
last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that.
|
It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking
|
tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock.
|
use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as
|
in the last three weeks." They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now,
|
economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?"<|quote|>"Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."</|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"What's she doing to-night?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let
|
two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming...
|
the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to
|
friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.
|
one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to
|
Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say,
|
fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired
|
all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success."<|quote|>"What's she doing to-night?"</|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."
|
Tony Last
|
success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony
|
once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.
|
took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the
|
how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful
|
middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't
|
sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your
|
particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all. On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs. "I'll tell you something very odd," he said. "Who do you think is here?" "Who?" "Our old friend Beaver." "Why's that odd particularly?" "Oh, I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent a telegram as he did to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He
|
"I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?"<|quote|>"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."</|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.
|
No speaker
|
if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking
|
ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I
|
Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit
|
There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish
|
time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people
|
those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck."
|
to us?" "I daresay." Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least
|
thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away."<|quote|>They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.</|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"
|
Tony Last
|
did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought
|
They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she
|
the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a
|
and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't
|
slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind
|
their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've
|
lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get
|
but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking.<|quote|>"Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"</|quote|>he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
he said.
|
No speaker
|
of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would
|
of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really
|
thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored
|
doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to
|
was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will
|
they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low
|
to him. He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to
|
economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."
|
Tony Last
|
taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of
|
talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I
|
do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the
|
"Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind
|
how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize
|
sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She
|
He said, "All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London." "Yes, I know." "How?" "Well, my mother let it to her, you know." Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. "You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known." "No, darling, that's why." Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, "I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?"
|
are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said.<|quote|>"I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."</|quote|>"People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"People from the school of economics?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't
|
I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore
|
over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently
|
but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like
|
know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's
|
at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked
|
was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you,
|
how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends."<|quote|>"People from the school of economics?"</|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message."
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"
|
Tony Last
|
from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard
|
with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."
|
came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of
|
it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends
|
to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low,
|
quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I
|
It's so hard to know." Brenda never started the subject of the half-finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John,
|
and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?"<|quote|>"No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"</|quote|>"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now...
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"the old boy".
|
No speaker
|
They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's
|
come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."
|
wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the
|
admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me
|
of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all
|
side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak
|
trick of twisting it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to
|
way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as"<|quote|>"the old boy".</|quote|>"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"John heard them."
|
Tony Last
|
me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes,
|
bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the
|
down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you
|
I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You
|
just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now.
|
with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I
|
it as he talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans
|
seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy".<|quote|>"John heard them."</|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Well, that's friendly enough."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished
|
talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some
|
I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will
|
got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a
|
Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is
|
magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's
|
talked. On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at
|
"Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them."<|quote|>"Well, that's friendly enough."</|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling,"
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Yes, that's friendly."
|
Tony Last
|
them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and
|
"the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony
|
get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap,
|
there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?"
|
do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight.
|
up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed.
|
Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have
|
in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough."<|quote|>"Yes, that's friendly."</|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,
|
No speaker
|
friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end,
|
"John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd
|
Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They
|
been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There
|
known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more...
|
of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?"
|
a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, "I've made a New Year resolution." "Anything to do with spending more time at home?" "Oh no, _quite_ the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something." "Not bone-setters again? I thought that was over." "No, something like economics. You see, I've been thinking. I don't really _do_ anything at all at present. The house runs itself. It seems to me time I _took_ to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well, if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things--you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go. Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" "It's one better than the bone-setters," Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began. CHAPTER III HARD CHEESE ON TONY [I] It is not uncommon at Bratt's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?" "Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you." "_Tony_, you're _not_ to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow." "Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come." "Tony, listen, will you please not come, not to-night. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off. "Oh God," said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my
|
restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternatively taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Bratt's, half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily. It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club. "Anyone here?" "Very quiet to-night, sir. Mr Last is in the dining-room." Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of him. He was half-way through dinner and three-quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. "Hullo," he said. "Chucked? Come and join me." It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table. "Been chucked?" asked Tony again. "Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out." "Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing." They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle. "Just come up for the night," said Tony. "Staying here." "You've got a flat now, haven't you?" "Well, Brenda has. There isn't really room for two... we tried it once and it wasn't a success." "What's she doing to-night?" "Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming... silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda, so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere... she's very high-principled about chucking... so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away." They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly."<|quote|>They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said,</|quote|>"I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Subsets and Splits
No community queries yet
The top public SQL queries from the community will appear here once available.