The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [224]
“Get up and get out.”
There followed one of those scuffles that persisted between father and daughter even in her eighteenth year which ended in her propulsion, yelping.
Basil sat and waited. The bell could not be heard in the anteroom. He sat in the window and watched the doorstep, saw a taxi draw up and Barbara enter it, still in pajamas and fur coat, carrying a small case. Later he saw his enemy strolling confidently from Berkeley Square. Basil opened the door.
“You did not expect to see me?”
“No, but I’m very glad to. We’ve a lot to discuss.”
They went together to the ante-room. The young man was less bizarre in costume than on their previous meeting but his hair was as copious and his beard proclaimed his chosen, deleterious status. They surveyed one another in silence. Then Basil said: “Lord Pastmaster’s shirts are too big for you.”
It was a weak opening.
“It’s not a thing I should have brought up if you hadn’t,” said Albright, “but all your clothes look too big for you.”
Basil covered his defeat by lighting a cigar.
“Barbara tells me you’ve been to that sanatorium in Kent,” continued the young man easily; “there’s a new place, you know, much better, in Sussex.”
Basil was conscious of quickening recognition. Some faint, odious inkling of kinship; had he not once, in years far gone by, known someone who had spoken in this way to his elders? He drew deeply on his cigar and studied Albright. The eyes, the whole face seemed remotely familiar; the reflection of a reflection seen long ago in shaving mirrors.
“Barbara tells me you have proposed marriage to her.”
“Well, she actually popped the question. I was glad to accept.”
“You are Clarence Albright’s son?”
“Yes, did you know him? I barely did. I hear he was rather awful. If you want to be genealogical, I have an uncle who is a duke. But I barely know him either.”
“And you are a painter?”
“Did Barbara tell you that?”
“She said you were an artistic genius.”
“She’s a loyal little thing. She must mean my music.”
“You compose?”
“I improvise sometimes. I play the guitar.”
“Professionally?”
“Sometimes—in coffee bars, you know.”
“I do not know, I’m afraid. And you make a living by it?”
“Not what you would call a living.”
“May I ask, then, how you propose to support my daughter?”
“Oh that doesn’t come into it. It’s the other way round. I’m doing what you did, marrying money. Now I know what’s in your mind. ‘Buy him off,’ you think. I assure you that won’t work. Barbara is infatuated with me and, if it’s not egotistical to mention it, I am with her. I’m sure you won’t want one of those ‘Gretna Green Romances’ and press photographers following you about. Besides, Barbara doesn’t want to be a nuisance to you. She’s a loyal girl, as we’ve already remarked. The whole thing can be settled calmly. Think of the taxes your wife will save by a good solid marriage settlement. It will make no appreciable difference to your own allowance.”
And still Basil sat steady, unmoved by any tremor of that volcanic senility which a fortnight ago would have exploded in scalding, blinding showers. He was doing badly in this first encounter which he had too lightly provoked. He must take thought and plan. He was not at the height of his powers. He had been prostrate yesterday. Today he was finding his strength. Tomorrow experience would conquer. This was a worthy antagonist and he felt something of the exultation which a brave of the sixteenth century might have felt when in a brawl he suddenly recognized in the clash of blades a worthy swordsman.
“Barbara’s mother has the best financial advice,” he said.
“By the way, where is Barbara? She arranged to meet me here.”
“She’s having a bath in Claridges.”
“I ought to go over and see her. I’m taking her out to lunch. You couldn’t lend me a fiver, could you?”
“Yes,” said Basil. “Certainly.”
If Albright had known him better he would have taken alarm at this urbanity. All he thought was: “Old crusty’s a much softer job than anyone told me.” And Basil thought: “I hope he spends it all on luncheon. That banknote is all