LITMIR.BIZ

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to satisfy the requirements of Benham's people and to do his friend credit. He was still in the phase of being a penitent pig, and he inquired carefully into the needs and duties of a summer guest in a country house. He knew it was quite a considerable country house, and that Sir Godfrey wasn't Benham's father, but like most people, he was persuaded that Lady Marayne had divorced the parental Benham. He arrived dressed very neatly in a brown suit that had only one fault, it had not the remotest suggestion of having been made for him. It fitted his body fairly well, it did annex his body with only a few slight incompatibilities, but it repudiated his hands and face. He had a conspicuously old Gladstone bag and a conspicuously new despatch case, and he had forgotten black ties and dress socks and a hair brush. He arrived in the late afternoon, was met by Benham, in tennis flannels, looking smartened up and a little unfamiliar, and taken off in a spirited dog-cart driven by a typical groom. He met his host and hostess at dinner.

      Sir Godfrey was a rationalist and a residuum. Very much of him, too much perhaps, had gone into the acquirement and perfect performance of the caecal operation; the man one met in the social world was what was left over. It had the effect of being quiet, but in its unobtrusive way knobby. He had a knobby brow, with an air about it of having recently been intent, and his conversation was curiously spotted with little knobby arrested anecdotes. If any one of any distinction was named, he would reflect and say, “Of course—ah, yes, I know him, I know him. Yes, I did him a little service—in '96.”

      And something in his manner would suggest a satisfaction, or a dissatisfaction with confidential mysteries.

      He welcomed Billy Prothero in a colourless manner, and made conversation about Cambridge. He had known one or two of the higher dons. One he had done at Cambridge quite recently. “The inns are better than they are at Oxford, which is not saying very much, but the place struck me as being changed. The men seemed younger. …”

      The burden of the conversation fell upon Lady Marayne. She looked extraordinarily like a flower to Billy, a little diamond buckle on a black velvet band glittered between the two masses of butter-coloured hair that flowed back from her forehead, her head was poised on the prettiest neck conceivable, and her shapely little shoulders and her shapely little arms came decidedly but pleasantly out of a softness and sparkle of white and silver and old rose. She talked what sounded like innocent commonplaces a little spiced by whim, though indeed each remark had an exploratory quality, and her soft blue eyes rested ever and again upon Billy's white tie. It seemed she did so by the merest inadvertency, but it made the young man wish he had after all borrowed a black one from Benham. But the manservant who had put his things out had put it out, and he hadn't been quite sure. Also she noted all the little things he did with fork and spoon and glass. She gave him an unusual sense of being brightly, accurately and completely visible.

      Chexington, it seemed to Billy, was done with a large and costly and easy completeness. The table with its silver and flowers was much more beautifully done than any table he had sat at before, and in the dimness beyond the brightness there were two men to wait on the four of them. The old grey butler was really wonderfully good. …

      “You shoot, Mr. Prothero?”

      “You hunt, Mr. Prothero?”

      “You know Scotland well, Mr. Prothero?”

      These questions disturbed Prothero. He did not shoot, he did not hunt, he did not go to Scotland for the grouse, he did not belong, and Lady Marayne ought to have seen that he did not belong to the class that does these things.

      “You ride much, Mr. Prothero?”

      Billy conceived a suspicion that these innocent inquiries were designed to emphasize a contrast in his social quality. But he could not be sure. One never could be sure with Lady Marayne. It might be just that she did not understand the sort of man he was. And in that case ought he to maintain the smooth social surface unbroken by pretending as far as possible to be this kind of person, or ought he to make a sudden gap in it by telling his realities. He evaded the shooting question anyhow. He left it open for Lady Marayne and the venerable butler and Sir Godfrey and every one to suppose he just happened to be the sort of gentleman of leisure who doesn't shoot. He disavowed hunting, he made it appear he travelled when he travelled in directions other than Scotland. But the fourth question brought him to bay. He regarded his questioner with his small rufous eye.

      “I have never been across a horse in my life, Lady Marayne.”

      “Tut, tut,” said Sir Godfrey. “Why!—it's the best of exercise. Every man ought to ride. Good for the health. Keeps him fit. Prevents lodgments. Most trouble due to lodgments.”

      “I've never had a chance of riding. And I think I'm afraid of horses.”

      “That's only an excuse,” said Lady Marayne. “Everybody's afraid of horses and nobody's really afraid of horses.”

      “But I'm not used to horses. You see—I live on my mother. And she can't afford to keep a stable.”

      His hostess did not see his expression of discomfort. Her pretty eyes were intent upon the peas with which she was being served.

      “Does your mother live in the country?” she asked, and took her peas with fastidious exactness.

      Prothero coloured brightly. “She lives in London.”

      “All the year?”

      “All the year.”

      “But isn't it dreadfully hot in town in the summer?”

      Prothero had an uncomfortable sense of being very red in the face. This kept him red. “We're suburban people,” he said.

      “But I thought—isn't there the seaside?”

      “My mother has a business,” said Prothero, redder than ever.

      “O-oh!” said Lady Marayne. “What fun that must be for her?”

      “It's a real business, and she has to live by it. Sometimes it's a worry.”

      “But a business of her own!” She surveyed the confusion of his visage with a sweet intelligence. “Is it an amusing sort of business, Mr. Prothero?”

      Prothero looked mulish. “My mother is a dressmaker,” he said. “In Brixton. She doesn't do particularly badly—or well. I live on my scholarship. I have lived on scholarships since I was thirteen. And you see, Lady Marayne, Brixton is a poor hunting country.”

      Lady Marayne felt she had unmasked Prothero almost indecently. Whatever happened there must be no pause. There must be no sign of a hitch.

      “But it's good at tennis,” she said. “You DO play tennis, Mr. Prothero?”

      “I—I gesticulate,” said Prothero.

      Lady Marayne, still in flight from that pause, went off at a tangent.

      “Poff, my dear,” she said, “I've had a diving-board put at the deep end of the pond.”

      The remark hung unanswered for a moment. The transition had been too quick for Benham's state of mind.

      “Do you swim, Mr. Prothero?” the lady asked, though a moment before she had determined that she would never ask him a question again. But this time it was a lucky question.

      “Prothero mopped up the lot of us at Minchinghampton with his diving and swimming,” Benham explained, and the tension was relaxed.

      Lady Marayne spoke of her own swimming, and became daring and amusing at her difficulties with local feeling when first she swam in the pond. The high road ran along the far side of the pond—“And it didn't wear a hedge or anything,” said Lady Marayne. “That was what they didn't quite like. Swimming in an undraped pond. …”

      Prothero had been examined enough. Now he must be entertained. She told stories about the village people in her brightest manner. The third story she regretted as soon as she was fairly launched upon it; it was how she had interviewed the village dressmaker, when Sir Godfrey insisted upon her supporting

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