A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [73]
This digression records, naturally, a later judgment; although even at the time, thinking things over, I could appreciate that there was nothing to be regarded as utterly unexpected in Widmerpool, after the sugar incident, taking a fancy to someone, “on the rebound,” however surprisingly in contrast with Barbara the next girl might be. When I began to weigh the characteristics of Gypsy Jones, in so far as I knew them, I wondered whether, on examination, they made, indeed, so violent an antithesis to Barbara’s qualities as might at first sight have appeared. Arguments could unquestionably be brought forward to show that these two girls possessed a good deal in common. Perhaps, after all, Barbara Goring and Gypsy Jones, so far from being irreconcilably different, were in fact notably alike; Barbara’s girls’ club, or whatever it was, in Bermondsey even pointing to a kind of sociological preoccupation in which there was—at least debatably—some common ground.
These speculations did not, of course, occur to me all at once. Still less did I think of a general law enclosing, even in some slight degree, all who share an interest in the same woman. It was not until years later that the course matters took in this direction became more or less explicable to me along such lines—that is to say, the irresistible pressure in certain emotional affairs of the most positive circumstantial inconvenience to be found at hand. Barnby, satisfied that I was clear regarding his own standpoint, was now prepared to make concessions.
“Jones has her admirers, you know,” he said. “In fact, Edgar swears that she is the toast of the 1917 Club. It’s my belief that in a perverted sort of way he rather fancies her himself—though, of course, he would never admit as much.”
“He talked a lot about her at the party.”
“What did he say?”
“He was deploring that she found herself in rather an awkward spot.”
“You know about that, do you?”
“Mr. Deacon seemed very concerned.”
“You make me laugh when you call Edgar ‘Mr. Deacon’,” said Barnby. “It certainly makes a new man of him. As a matter of fact, I rather think Jones has solved her problem. You know, she is older than you’d think—too old to get into that sort of difficulty. What do you say to going across the road for a drink?”
On the way out of the studio I asked if one of the unframed portraits standing against the easel could be a likeness of Mrs. Wentworth. Barnby, after scarcely perceptible hesitation, agreed that the picture represented that lady.
“She is rather paintable,” he explained.
“Yes?”
“But tricky at times.”
The subject of Mrs. Wentworth seemed to dispirit him a little, and he remained silent until we were sitting in front of our drinks in the empty saloon bar of the pub on the corner.
“Do you have any dealings with Donners?” he asked at last.
“A friend of mine called Charles Stringham had some sort of a job with him.”
“I’ve heard Baby speak of Stringham. Wasn’t there something about a divorce?”
“His sister’s.”
“That was it,” said Barnby. “But the point is—what is happening about Baby and Donners?”
“How do you mean?”
“They are seen about a lot together. Baby has been appearing with some rather nice diamond