In the afternoon the three of them went on the river, but Julia had the feeling that they took her, not because they much wanted to, but because they could not help it.
She stifled a sigh when she reflected how much she had looked forward to Tom’s holiday.
Now she was counting the days that must pass till it ended.
She drew a deep breath of relief when she got into the car to go to London.
She was not angry with Tom, but deeply hurt; she was exasperated with herself because she had so lost control over her feelings.
But when she got into the theatre she felt that she shook off the obsession of him like a bad dream from which one awoke; there, in her dressing-room, she regained possession of herself and the affairs of the common round of daily life faded to insignificance.
Nothing really mattered when she had within her grasp this possibility of freedom.
Thus the week went by.
Michael, Roger and Tom enjoyed themselves.
They bathed, they played tennis, they played golf, they lounged about on the river.
There were only four days more.
There were only three days more. (‘I can stick it out now. It’ll be different when we’re back in London again. I mustn’t show how miserable I am. I must pretend it’s all right.’)
‘A snip having this spell of fine weather,’ said Michael.
‘Tom’s been a success, hasn’t he?
Pity he can’t stay another week.’
‘Yes, a terrible pity.’
‘I think he’s a nice friend for Roger to have.
A thoroughly normal, clean-minded English boy.’
‘Oh, thoroughly.’ (‘Bloody fool, bloody fool.’)
‘To see the way they eat is a fair treat.’
‘Yes, they seem to have enjoyed their food.’ (‘My God, I wish it could have choked them.’) Tom was to go up to town by an early train on Monday morning.
The Dexters, who had a house at Bourne End, had asked them all to lunch on Sunday.
They were to go down, in the launch.
Now that Tom’s holiday was nearly over Julia was glad that she had never by so much as a lifted eyebrow betrayed her irritation.
She was certain that he had no notion how deeply he had wounded her.
After all she must be tolerant, he was only a boy, and if you must cross your t’s, she was old enough to be his mother.
It was a bore that she had a thing about him, but there it was, she couldn’t help it; she had told herself from the beginning that she must never let him feel that she had any claims on him.
No one was coming to dinner on Sunday.
She would have liked to have Tom to herself on his last evening; that was impossible, but at all events they could go for a stroll by themselves in the garden.
‘I wonder if he’s noticed that he hasn’t kissed me since he came here?’
They might go out in the punt.
It would be heavenly to lie in his arms for a few minutes; it would make up for everything.
The Dexters’ party was theatrical.
Grace Hardwill, Archie’s wife, played in musical comedy, and there was a bevy of pretty girls who danced in the piece in which she was then appearing.
Julia acted with great naturalness the part of a leading lady who put on no frills.
She was charming to the young ladies, with their waved platinum hair, who earned three pounds a week in the chorus.
A good many of the guests had brought kodaks and she submitted with affability to being photographed.
She applauded enthusiastically when Grace Hardwill sang her famous song to the accompaniment of the composer.
She laughed as heartily as anyone when the comic woman did an imitation of her in one of her best-known parts.
It was all very gay, rather rowdy, and agreeably light-hearted.
Julia enjoyed herself, but when it was seven o’clock was not sorry to go.
She was thanking her hosts effusively for the pleasant party when Roger came up to her.
‘I say, mum, there’s a whole crowd going on to Maidenhead to dine and dance, and they want Tom and me to go too.
You don’t mind, do you?’
The blood rushed to her cheeks.
She could not help answering rather sharply.
‘How are you to get back?’
‘Oh, that’ll be all right.
We’ll get someone to drop us.’
She looked at him helplessly.