A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [91]
“The Chief was in ecstasies,” said Stringham. “Baby will be furious when she hears of this.”
This description of Sir Magnus’s bearing seemed a little exaggerated, because nothing could have been more matter-of-fact than the voice in which he inquired of Prince Theodoric: “What do you think of my private prison, sir?”
The Prince’s features had resumed to some extent that somewhat embarrassed fixity of countenance worn when I had seen him at Mrs. Andriadis’s; an expression perhaps evoked a second or two earlier by Pardoe’s performance, the essentially schoolboy nature of which Prince Theodoric, as a foreigner, might have legitimately failed to grasp. He seemed at first to be at a loss to know exactly how to reply to this question, in spite of its evident jocularity, raising his eyebrows and stroking his dark chin.
“I can only answer, Sir Magnus,” he said at last, “that you should see the interior of one of our new model prisons. They might surprise you. For a poor country we have some excellent prisons. In some ways, I can assure you, they compare very favourably, so far as modern convenience is concerned, with the accommodation in which my own family is housed—certainly during the season of the year when we are obliged to inhabit the Old Palace.”
This reply was received with suitable amusement; and, as the tour was now at an end—at least the serious part of it—we moved back once more along the passage. Our host, in his good-humour, had by then indisputably lost interest in the few minor points of architectural consideration that remained to be displayed by Truscott on the ascent of the farther staircase. Half-way up these stairs, we encountered Widmerpool, making his way down. He retired before the oncoming crowd, waiting at the top of the stairway for Sir Magnus, who was the last to climb the steps. The two of them remained in conference together, while the rest of us returned to the terrace overlooking the garden, where Sir Gavin and Lord Huntercombe were standing, both, by that time, showing unmistakable signs of having enjoyed enough of each other’s company. Peggy Stepney had also reappeared.
“Being engaged really takes up all one’s time,” said Stringham, after he had described to her the incidents of the tour. “Weren’t you talking of Peter? Do you ever see him these days? I never meet anyone or hear any gossip.”
“His sister tells me he ought to get married.”
“It comes to us all sooner or later. I expect it’s hanging over you, too. Don’t you Peggy? He’ll have to submit.”
“Of course,” she said, laughing.
They seemed now very much like any other engaged couple, and I decided that there could have been no significance in the withdrawal of her hand from his. In fact, everything about the situation seemed normal. There was not even a sense of the engagement being “on” again, after its period of abeyance, presumably covered by the interlude with Mrs. Andriadis. I wondered what the Bridgnorths thought about it all. I did not exactly expect Stringham to mention the Andriadis party, indeed, it would have been surprising had he done so; but, at the same time, he was so entirely free from any suggestion of having “turned over a new leaf,” or anything that could possibly be equated with that state of mind, that I felt curious to know what the stages had been of his return to a more conventional form of life. We talked of Templer for a moment or two.
“I believe you have designs on that very strange girl you came over here with,” he said. “Admit it yourself.”
“Eleanor Walpole-Wilson?”
“The one who produced the chain in the dungeon. How delighted the Chief was. Why not marry her?”
“I think Baby will be rather angry,” said