A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [22]
“I hear you’re letting your shooting,” he remarked.
“Got to cut down somewhere,” said Pardoe. “That seemed as good a place as anywhere to begin.”
“Outgoings very heavy?”
“A lot of things to be brought up to date.”
The two of them settled down to discuss Shropshire coverts, with which Sir Gavin had some familiarity since his father-in-law, Lord Aberavon, had settled on the borders of that county during the latter part of his life; though the house had been sold at his death. Archie Gilbert, having successfully undertaken the operation of releasing the ladies from the room, returned to the chair next to mine. I asked who was giving the other dance that night.
“Mrs. Samson.”
“What will it be like?”
“Probably better than the Huntercombes’. Mrs. Samson has got Ambrose—though of course the band is not everything.”
“Are you going to Mrs. Samson’s.”
He gave the ghost of a smile at what he must have regarded as a question needlessly asked.
“I expect I shall look in.”
“Is it for Daphne?”
“For Cynthia, the youngest girl,” he said, with gentle reproof at the thoughtlessness once more shown in putting this inquiry, which betrayed an altogether insufficiently serious approach to the world of dances. “Daphne has been out for ages.”
On the other side of the table Widmerpool seemed, for some reason, determined to make a good impression on Tompsitt. Together they had begun to talk over the question of the Far East; Tompsitt treating Widmerpool’s views on that subject with more respect than I should have expected him to show.
“I see the Chinese marshals have announced their victory to the spirit of the late Dr. Sun Yat-sen,” Widmerpool was saying.
He spoke rather as if he had himself expected an invitation to the ceremony, but was prepared to overlook its omission on this occasion. Tompsitt, pursing his lips, rather in Widmerpool’s own manner, concurred that such solemn rites had indeed taken place.
“And the Nationalists have got to Pekin,” Widmerpool pursued.
“But who are the Nationalists?” asked Tompsitt, in a measured voice, gazing round the table with an air of quiet aggression. “Can anyone tell me that?”
Neither Archie Gilbert nor I ventured any attempt to clarify the confused situation in China; and not even Widmerpool seemed disposed to hazard any immediate interpretation of conflicting political aims there. There was a pause, at the end of which he said: “I dare say we shall have to consider tariff autonomy—with reservations, of course.”
Tompsitt nodded, biting his lip a trifle. Widmerpool’s face assumed a dramatic expression that made him look rather like a large fish moving swiftly through opaque water to devour a smaller one. Sir Gavin had begun to grow restive as scraps of this stimulating dialogue were wafted across to him, and he now abandoned the subject of Salopian pheasants in favour of trenchant examination of Celestial affairs.
“To speak of treaty-revision before China has put her house in order,” he announced rather slowly, between puffs of his cigarette, “is thought by some—having regard to the status quo—substantially to put the cart before the horse. The War-Lords—”
“A cousin of mine in the Coldstream went out last year,” Pardoe interrupted. “He said it wasn’t too bad.”
“Was that at Kowloon?” asked Widmerpool, speaking somewhat deferentially. “I hear, by the way, they are sending the Welsh Guards to Egypt instead of a Line regiment.”
“You spoke of treaty revision, Sir Gavin,” said Tompsitt, ignoring Widmerpool’s adumbrations on the incidence of the