A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [23]
“Some of them were under canvas on the race-course,” said Pardoe. “Not that there were any starters, I should imagine.” And, presumably with a view to disposing finally of the Chinese question and turning to subjects of more local interest, he added: “You know, legalising the tote is going to make a big difference to racing.”
Sir Gavin looked dissatisfied with the turn taken by—or rather forced on—the conversation; possibly, in fact certainly, possessing further views on the international situation in the East which he was not unwilling to express. However, he must have decided that time did not allow any return to these matters, for he made, as it were, a mystic circle before himself in the air with the decanter, as if to show that the fate of China—and of racing too, for that matter—was in the lap of the gods.
“Nobody having any port,” he stated, rather than asked. “Then I suppose we shall be getting into trouble if we don’t make a move. Anyone for along the passage?”
“Yes,” said Tompsitt, setting off impatiently.
While we waited for him, Sir Gavin expatiated to Pardoe whom he seemed, for some reason, particularly to enjoy lecturing, on the advantages to be gained for the country by mustering young men of Tompsitt’s kind.
“Had the smooth type too long,” he remarked, shaking his head a number of times.
“Need something crisper these days, do we?” inquired Pardoe, who, standing on tiptoe, was straightening his white tie reflected in the glass of the barometer hanging under Boyhood of Cyrus.
“All very well a century ago to have a fellow who could do the polite to the local potentate,” explained Sir Gavin. “Something a bit more realistic required these days.”
“A chap who knows the man-in-the-street?”
Sir Gavin screwed his face into an expression calculated to convey that such was the answer.
“Where does he come from?” asked Pardoe, who did not seem absolutely convinced by these arguments, and still fiddled with his tie.
Sir Gavin seemed rather pleased by this question, which gave him further opportunity for stating uncompromisingly his confidence in Tompsitt’s almost congenital bona fides.
“Goodness knows where he comes from,” he affirmed vigorously. “Why should you or I be concerned with that—or any of us, for that matter? What we need is a man who can do the job.”
“I quite agree with you, sir,” said Widmerpool, breaking unexpectedly into this investigation. “Professionalism in diplomacy is bad enough, in all conscience, without restricting the range of the country’s diplomatic representation to a clique of prize pupils from a small group of older public schools.”
Sir Gavin looked rather taken aback, as I was myself, at such a sudden assertion of considered opinion regarding the matter in hand—and also at being called “sir”—even though Widmerpool’s views seemed so closely identified with his own. However, Widmerpool did not attempt to amplify his proposition, and circumstances, represented by the return of Tompsitt, prevented a more exhaustive examination of the problem.
In his distrust of “smoothness” and hankering for “realism,” Sir Gavin once more reminded me of Uncle Giles, but such reflections were interrupted by the necessity of making a decision regarding means of transport to the Huntercombes’ house. The Walpole-Wilsons’ cars were both, for some reason, out of commission—Eleanor had driven one of them against the mounting-block in the stable yard at Hinton Hoo—and Pardoe’s sports-model two-seater was not specially convenient for a girl in a ball dress; although I could imagine Barbara wishing to travel in it if she had a chance. As it happened, Pardoe’s general offer of “a lift” was immediately accepted by Tompsitt, which settled the matter so far as the rest of the party were concerned: this residue being divided between two taxis. I found myself in Lady Walpole-Wilson’s vehicle, with Barbara, Miss Manasch, and