The Second Shot Read Free Page A

tell a story on paper. I am not practised in the arts of subtle hint and delicate shades of meaning. But it is one of my maxims that, except in matters depending on mere physique, what man has done man can do; and I see no reason why I should not be able to perform this particular task as well as any other. Without self-flattery, I do not think the intelligence will be lacking: at least, such small degree of intelligence as is required.
    With these few words of introduction, then, so that the reader may understand the particularly
piquant
circumstances in which this ‘story’ is written, I will, as the professional writers put it, set out the facts.
    Candidly, I had been a little surprised when I got Mrs Hillyard’s letter asking me for a fortnight down to Minton Deeps. Ethel Hillyard is an old friend of mine – that is to say, I have known her since childhood – but I had always had an idea that her husband did not care for me much. Certainly I did not care much for him. He is an uncouth sort of fellow, and I have always considered Ethel wasted on him. Still, Minton Deeps is Minton Deeps, John Hillyard or no, the most charming farm in the whole of Devonshire; and Minton Deeps in June, for those who have eyes to see, is incomparable. I accepted by return.
    If I was surprised at having been asked, it was nothing to my astonishment on learning, at my arrival ten days later, who else had been asked too. Minton Deeps Farm is in a remote part of Devonshire, in the heart of the country, ten miles from the nearest market town, and the Hillyards do not entertain much. But on this occasion they had collected something approaching a regular house party. I had expected to be the only guest; there were actually five others.
    They were at tea in the little low-ceilinged sitting room when I arrived, and for some reason saw fit to greet my appearance with a series of long, shrill howls. I smiled, of course, as one does at the ill-mannered jest of a spoilt child in the presence of its mother, but I was annoyed. In a flash my visions disappeared of long, lazy days in the sun on the steep slopes of Minton Valley among the bracken and gorse, with a rug and a book and a case full of cigarettes, and Ethel occasionally perhaps to listen to me if I felt in the mood for talking. These people would be wanting all the time to
do
things, and they would expect me to do them too.
    My heart sank as I accepted a cup of tea from my hostess and dropped into a chair, though still with the same smile of civilized politeness on my lips; for I take pride in being able to conceal my feelings at all times from the oafs and the herd. And here were the oafs and the herd. Eric Scott-Davies was there, a man I particularly disliked, a large, loud-voiced, cocksure fellow, a waster and a chaser after other men’s wives, with all the insufferable superiority of Eton and the self-confident assertiveness of Cambridge (my own school was Fernhurst, and my university Oxford). Beside him John Hillyard, with his pale sandy hair and his large, red, rather vacant face, the typical gentleman farmer, redolent of the manure heap, showed up to positive advantage.
    Then there were Paul de Ravel and his wife, a couple for whom I had never much cared, though she at any rate was a joy to look on, a tall, slender wand of a woman with flaming auburn hair and slumberous green eyes which she normally kept half closed but which could flash sparks of passionate green fire when anything roused her. She was English and had at one time been a professional actress; now she was a natural one, and her immediate surroundings were her invariable stage. Her husband, little Paul de Ravel, had married her four years ago while she was still on the stage, and was said to be still as madly in love with her as he had been then. It had always been curious to me that he had never seen through her poses and her affectations. Paul de Ravel is French by birth and English by upbringing and education, and