The Passionate Year Read Free Page B

the Doctor and his wife had
impressed their personalities crudely and without compromise; and as if those
personalities were so diametrically different that no fusing of the two into
one was ever possible. Throughout the meal he kept looking first to his left,
at Mrs. Ervine, and then to his right at the Doctor, and wondering at what he
felt instinctively to be a fundamental strangeness in their life
together.
    Potter, assisted by a speckle-faced maid, hovered assiduously around, and
the Doctor assisted occasionally by his wife, hovered no less assiduously
around the conversation, preventing it from lapsing into such awkward
silences as would throw into prominence the continual hissing of the gas and
his own sibilant ingurgitation of soup. The Doctor talked rather loudly and
ponderously, and with such careful and scrupulous qualifications of
everything he said that one had the impressive sensation that incalculable
and mysterious issues hung upon his words; Mrs. Ervine’s remarks were short
and pithy, sometimes a little cynical.
    The Doctor seemed to fear that he had given Speed a wrong impression of
Miss Harrington. “I’m sure Mr. Speed will be surprised when I tell him that
he can have the honour of purchasing his Times from you each morning,
Clare,” he said, lapping up the final spoonful of soup and bestowing a
satisfied wipe with his napkin on his broad wet lips.
    Clare said: “I should think Mr. Speed would prefer to have it
delivered.”
    Mrs. Ervine said: “Perhaps Mr. Speed doesn’t take the Times ,
either.”
    Speed looked across to Clare with a humorous twist of the corners of the
mouth and said: “You can book me an order for the Telegraph if you
like, Miss Harrington.”
    “With pleasure, Mr. Speed. Any Sunday paper?”
    “The Observer , if you will be so kind.”
    “Right.”
    Again the Doctor seemed to fear that he had given Speed a wrong impression
of Miss Harrington. “I’m sure Mr. Speed will be interested to know that your
father is a great littérateur, Clare.”
    Clare gave the Doctor a curious look, with one corner of her upper lip
tilted at an audacious upward angle.
    The Doctor went on, leaning his elbows on the table as soon as Potter had
removed his soup-plate: “Mr. Harrington is the author of books on
ethics.”
    All this time Helen had not spoken a word. Speed had been watching her,
for she was already to him by far the most interesting member of the party.
He noticed that her eyes were constantly shifting between Clare and anyone
whom Clare was addressing; Clare seemed almost the centre of her world. When
Clare smiled she smiled also, and when Clare was pensive there came into her
eyes a look which held, besides pensiveness, a touch of sadness. She was an
extremely beautiful girl and in the yellow light the coils of her hair shone
like sheaves of golden corn on a summer’s day. It was obvious that,
conversationally at any rate, she was extremely shy.
    Mrs. Ervine was saying: “You’re going to take the music, Mr. Speed, are
you not?”
    Speed smiled and nodded.
    She went on: “Then I suppose you’re fond of music.”
    “Doesn’t it follow?” Speed answered, with a laugh.
    She replied pertly: “Not necessarily at all, Mr. Speed. Do you play an
instrument?”
    “The piano a little.”
    The Head interposed with: “Um, yes—a wonderful instrument. We must
have some music after dinner, eh, Lydia?—Do you like Mendelssohn?” (He
gave the word an exaggeratedly German pronunciation.) “My daughter plays some
of the—um—the Lieder ohne Wörte —um, yes—the
Songs Without Words, you know.”
    “I like some of Mendelssohn,” said Speed.
    He looked across at the girl. She was blushing furiously, with her eyes
still furtively on Clare.
VII
    After dinner they all returned to the drawing-room, where
inferior coffee was distributed round in absurdly diminutive cups, Potter
attitudinising over it like a high priest performing the