Above Suspicion Read Free Page B

particularly ingenuous way he had when he was most on guard… But Peter Galt had not arrived yet.
    The three young men arrived from their various directions, and began one of the usual adroit conversations which sherry parties inspire. They all avoided talking present-day politics with an understanding as complete as it was tacit. This was perhaps the last conversation they would have together for a long time, and they wanted to keep it gay. They discussed the Picasso exhibition in London, and Guernica, and that led to Catalonian art and Dali. Frances wanted to know if the pineapple Cathedral at Barcelona was still more unfinished. (Michael had been there with the International Brigade. It was a bad show about his arm; Frances had heard that the shrapnel still embedded there might end in amputation.) But Michael steered the conversation to Gaudi and his architectural fantasies. Frances remembered a chapter somewhere by Evelyn Waugh on Gaudi’s telephone kiosks. It was an amusing description and they laughed.
    “Eternal Oxford: how delightful it is to return and be so far removed from the rigours of life.” The voice had a very pronounced, almost too careful Oxford accent. The speaker was tall and remarkably good-looking. A duelling scar markedhis chin, another his cheek; they gave his blondness a certain formidable quality. His smile was very self-possessed. “Mrs. Myles, as lovely as ever.” He bowed very low over Frances’ hand.
    Frances collected herself. “Oh, hello. How are you?” She made hasty introductions. “Freiherr Sigurd von Aschenhausen— John Clark, Sir Michael Hampton, George Sanderson. Herr von Aschenhausen, you know, was an undergraduate along with Richard.”
    There was a pause.
    “Charming to return and find Evelyn Waugh and Oxford still inseparable.” Von Aschenhausen’s voice was friendly. The three undergraduates maintained a polite smile in place. Frances knew they were placing his date of residence at the University very accurately. She thought of explaining that it wasn’t black satin sheets but Catalonian architecture which they had been discussing, and then gave up the idea as being more trouble than it was probably worth. Even allowing for the foreigner’s favourite indoor sport of underestimating the English, surely von Aschenhausen couldn’t be serious. After all he had been to three universities, one in Germany, one in England and one in America. One thing he must know about undergraduates by this time, and that was that they were always in revolt. They were never static. The only way they could form their minds was by opposing accepted opinion. Frances herself had seen the swing of the pendulum away from the æsthete to the politically conscious young man who Studied Conditions. The æsthete himself had been in rebellion against the realism of the post-War group.
    George made some polite remark to cover up theirembarrassment. Michael was lighting a cigarette. John was gazing into the middle distance. Frances remembered he was allergic to Germany; since that kick four years ago when he hadn’t saluted a procession in Leipzig. The conversation limped along, the undergraduates hoping that von Aschenhausen would go; but he didn’t. Frances did her best: she talked about summer holidays. The undergraduates were going to France; von Aschenhausen was returning to Berlin. She explained that Richard and she would like to have their usual view of mountains.
    “Where exactly were you thinking of going?” asked von Aschenhausen.
    “We were in the South Tyrol last year. I’d like to get back there just once more”—Frances’ voice was honey-sweet—“just before the volcano erupts.” The Englishmen smiled grimly. The German protested politely.
    “What! With this peaceful England? There will be no war, no general war. Just look at everyone in this room…” Unconsciously he straightened his back as he looked round the room. “And there’s not a soldier among you,” was the