A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [57]
On that earlier occasion when I had seen him at the dance, Truscott, although he might excusably have forgotten our two or three meetings with Sillery in days past, had dispensed one of those exhausted, engaging smiles for which he was noted; while his eyes wandered round the ballroom “ear-marking duchesses,” as Stringham—years later—once called that wistful, haunted intensity that Truscott’s eyes took on, from time to time, among any large concourse of people that might include individuals of either sex potentially important to an ambitious young man’s career. As he came through the door at that moment, he gave his weary smile again, to show that he still remembered me, saying at the same time to Widmerpool: “You went away so quickly that I had no time to tell you that the Chief will very likely be here to-night. He is an old friend of Milly’s. Besides, I happen to know that he told Baby Wentworth he would look in—so it’s a virtual certainty.”
Truscott was still, so far as I knew, one of the secretaries of Sir Magnus Donners, to whom it was to be presumed he referred as “the Chief.” Stringham’s vagueness in speaking of his own employment had left me uncertain whether or not he and Truscott remained such close colleagues as formerly, though Sillery’s remarks certainly suggested that they were still working together.
“Well, of course, that would be splendid,” said Widmerpool slowly.
But, although unquestionably interested in the information just given him, he spoke rather forlornly. His mind seemed to be on other things: unable to concentrate fully on the comings and goings even of so portentous a figure as Sir Magnus Donners.
“He could meet you,” Truscott said dryly. “And then we could talk things over next week.”
Widmerpool, trying to collect himself, seemed still uncertain in his own mind. He smoothed down his hair, the disarrangement of which he must have observed in the mural looking-glass in front of us.
“The Chief is the most unconventional man in the world,” said Truscott, more encouragingly. “He loves informality.”
He stood there, smiling down at Widmerpool, for, although not more than an inch or two taller, he managed to give an impression of height. His thick and glossy hair had grown perceptibly more grey round the ears. I wondered how Truscott and Widmerpool had been brought together, since it was clear that arrangements projected for that night must have been the result of earlier, possibly even laborious, negotiation between them. There could be no doubt, whatever my own opinion of Widmerpool’s natural endowments, that he managed to make a decidedly good impression on people primarily interested in “getting on.” For example, neither Tompsitt nor Truscott had much in common except concentration on “the main chance,” and yet both had apparently been struck—in Tompsitt’s case, almost immediately—by some inner belief in Widmerpool’s fundamental ability. This matter of making headway in life was one to which I felt perhaps I, too, ought to devote greater consideration in future, if I were myself not to remain inextricably fixed in a monotonous, even sometimes dreary, groove.
“You don’t think I had better ring you up in the morning?” said Widmerpool, rather anxiously. “My brain is a bit confused to-night. I don’t want to make a poor impression on Sir Magnus. To tell the truth, I was thinking of going home. I don’t usually stay up as late as this.”
“All right,” said Truscott, not attempting to repress a polite smile at the idea of anyone being so weak in spirit as to limit their chances of advancement by reluctance to keep late hours. “Perhaps that might be best. Donners-Brebner, Extension 5, any time after ten o’clock “
“I don’t expect it would be much use looking for my hostess to say good-bye,” said Widmerpool, gazing about him wildly as if by now tired out. “You know,