Where did you get that suit?”
“I don't know. Some shop.”
“What's the news at Hetton?”
“All the same.
Tony madly feudal.
John Andrew cursing like a stable boy.”
“And you?”
“Me?
Oh, I'm all right.”
“Who's been to stay?”
“No one.
We had a friend of Tony's called Mr. Beaver last week-end.”
“John Beaver? … How very odd.
“I shouldn't have thought he was at all Tony's tea.”
“He wasn't … What's he like?”
“I hardly know him.
I see him at Margot's sometimes.
He's a great one for going everywhere.”
“I thought he was rather pathetic.”
“Oh, he's pathetic all right.
D'you fancy him?”
“Heavens, no.”
They took Djinn for a walk in the Park.
He was a very unrepaying dog who never looked about him and had to be dragged along by his harness; they took him to Watt's Physical Energy; when loosed he stood perfectly still, gazing moodily at the asphalt until they turned towards home; only once did he show any sign of emotion, when he snapped at a small child who attempted to stroke him; later he got lost and was found a few yards away, sitting under a chair and staring at a shred of waste paper.
He was quite colourless with pink nose and lips and pink circles of bald flesh round his eyes.
“I don't believe he has a spark of human feeling,” said Marjorie.
They talked about Mr. Cruttwell, their bone setter, and Marjorie's new treatment.
“He's never done that to me,” said Brenda enviously; presently, “What do you suppose is Mr. Beaver's sex-life?”
I shouldn't know.
Pretty dim I imagine … You do fancy him?”
“Oh well,” said Brenda, “I don't see such a lot of young men …”
They left the dog at home and did some shopping — towels for the nursery, pickled peaches, a clock for one of the lodge-keepers who was celebrating his sixtieth year of service at Hetton, a pot of Morecambe Bay shrimps as a surprise for Tony; they made an appointment with Mr. Cruttwell for that afternoon. They talked about Polly Cockpurse's party.
“Do come up for it.
It's certain to be amusing.”
I might … if I can find someone to take me.
Tony doesn't like her … I can't go to parties alone at my age.”
They went out to luncheon, to a new restaurant in Albemarle Street which a friend of theirs named Daisy had recently opened.
“You're in luck,” said Marjorie, as soon as they got inside the door, “there's your Mr. Beaver's mother.”
She was entertaining a party of eight at a large round table in the centre of the room; she was being paid to do so by Daisy, whose restaurant was not doing all she expected of it — that is to say the luncheon was free and Mrs. Beaver was getting the order, should the restaurant still be open, for its spring redecorations.
It was, transparently, a made-up party, the guests being chosen for no mutual bond — least of all affection for Mrs. Beaver or for each other — except that their names were in current use — an accessible but not wholly renegade Duke, an unmarried girl of experience, a dancer and a novelist and a scene designer, a shamefaced junior minister who had not realized what he was in for until too late, and Lady Cockpurse;
“God, what a party,” said Marjorie, waving brightly to them all.
“You're both coming to my party, darlings?” Polly Cockpurse's strident tones rang across the restaurant.
“Only don't tell anyone about it.
It's just a very small, secret party.
The house will only hold a few people — just old friends.”
“It would be wonderful to see what Polly's real old friends were like,” said Marjorie.
“She hasn't known anyone more than five years.”
“I wish Tony could see her point.”
(Although Polly's fortune was derived from men, her popularity was chiefly among women, who admired her clothes and bought them from her second hand at bargain prices; her first steps to eminence had been in circles so obscure that they had made her no enemies in the world to which she aspired; some time ago she had married a good-natured Earl, whom nobody else happened to want at the time, since then she had scaled all but the highest peaks of every social mountain.)
After luncheon Mrs. Beaver came across to their table.