At Lady Molly's - Anthony Powell [96]
‘So I should imagine.’
‘Not every man would want to take her on. Couple of step-children into the bargain.’
‘No.’
‘All the same Widmerpool seemed to me rather a trying fellow. Half the time he was being obsequious, behaving as if he was applying for the job as footman, the other half, he was telling Geoffrey Sleaford and myself how to run our own affairs. It was then I began to mark down his psychological type. I had brought the book with me.’
‘How did he get on with Lord Sleaford?’
‘Pretty well,’ said the General. ‘Pretty well. Better than you might think. You know, Widmerpool talks sense about business matters. No doubt of it. Made some suggestions about developing the home farm at Dogdene which were quite shrewd. It was with Mildred there was some awkwardness. Mildred is not a woman to hang about with. If he wanted to marry her, he ought to have got down to matters and have done it. No good delaying in things of that sort.’
‘He has been having jaundice.’
‘I knew he’d been ill. He made several references to the fact. Seemed rather too fond of talking about his health. Another sign of his type. Anyway, his illness was beside the point. The fact was, Mildred did not think he was paying her enough attention. That was plain as a pikestaff. Mildred is a woman who expects a good deal of fuss to be made over her. I could see he was in for trouble,’
‘What form did it take?’
‘First of all, as I told you, she was a bit short with him. Then she fairly told him off to his face. That was on Saturday afternoon. Thought there was going to be a real row between them. Alice Sleaford never noticed a thing. In the evening they seemed to have made it up. In fact, after dinner, they were more like an engaged couple than I’d ever seen ’em. Now, look here, where would you put his type? Psychologically, I mean.’
‘Rather hard to say in a word—I know him so well—’
‘It seems to me,’ said the General, ‘that he is a typical intuitive extrovert—classical case, almost. Cold-blooded. Keen on a thing for a moment, but never satisfied. Wants to get on to something else. Don’t really know about these things, but Widmerpool seems to fit into the classification. That’s the category in which I’d place him, just as if a recruit turns up with a good knowledge of carpentry and you draft him into the Sappers. You are going to say you are a hard-bitten Freudian, and won’t hear of Jung and his ideas. Very well, I’ll open another field of fire.’
‘But—’
‘You haven’t heard the rest of the story yet. I came down to breakfast early on Sunday morning. I thought I’d have a stroll in the garden, and have another look at those hothouses. What do you think I found? Widmerpool in the hall, making preparations to leave the house. Some story about a telephone call, and being summoned back to London. Fellow looked like death. Shaking like a jelly and the colour of wax. Told me he’d slept very badly. Hardly closed his eyes. I’m quite prepared to believe that. Alice Sleaford won’t use the best bedrooms for some reason. Never know where you are going to be put.’
‘And did he go back to London?’
‘Drove off, there and then, under my eyes. Whole house had been turned upside down to get him away at that hour on Sunday morning. Left a message for the host and hostess to say how sorry he was, neither of them having come down yet. Never saw a man more disgruntled than the Sleafords’ chauffeur.’
‘But what had happened? Had there really been a telephone call? I don’t understand.’
‘There had been some telephoning that morning, but the butler said it had been Widmerpool putting the call through. Only heard the true story that afternoon from Mildred when we were walking together in the