The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [126]
"Respect's a broad human instinct," said Mr. Peppingham, letting one eye wander to meet the soufflé.
"Oh yes. But do you think it is still?"
The two Peppinghams' eyes, for less than a second, met. They share the same ideals, thought Anna. Do I and Thomas? Perhaps, but what ever are they? I do wish Major Brutt would say something or contradict me: the Peppinghams will start thinking he is a Red. What a misleading reputation my house has—the Peppinghams must have come here for Interesting Talk, because they feel they don't get enough of that in Shropshire. The yearnings of the County are appalling. They forget
Major Brutt has come here to get a job; they probably are offended at meeting only him. If I had asked an author, which they must have expected, things could not be more hopeless than they are now, and it might have put the Peppinghams into a better mood—besides showing Major Brutt up as the practical man. I thought that my beaux yeux should be enough to send Major Brutt and the Peppinghams into each other's arms. But these Peppinghams are not nice enough to be flattered. No, they are full of designing hardness; all they think is that I'm making use of them. Which I would do if I could, but they are impossible. They despise Major Brutt for being nicer than they are and for not having made good in their line. If he would only flush and argue, instead of just sitting. Oh dear, oh dear, I shall never sell him at all.
"You disapprove of my ideas, don't you?" she threw out to Major Brutt with a frantic summoning smile.
But he only crumbled his bread and quietly ate the crumbs. "Oh, I don't think I'd venture to. Not wholesale. I don't doubt for a moment there's a great deal in what you say." Looking kindly at her with his straight grey eyes, he added: "One reason I should like to settle down is that then I might begin to think things out for myself. Not knowing exactly what may turn up is inclined to make one a bit unsettled, and often when I've intended to have a think—for after all, I've got a bit of time on my hands—I find I am not in form, so I don't get much thinking done. Meanwhile, it's a treat to listen to a discussion, though I don't feel qualified to shove my oar in."
"My only quarrel with this charming lady," said Mr. Peppingham (who was becoming odious), "is, that she will not tell us what her ideas are."
Anna (now throwing up the sponge completely) replied: "I could if I knew what we were talking about."
Mr. Peppingham, tolerant, turned to dig in the cheese. Anna wanted to reach along the table, grip Major Brutt's hand and say: No good. I've drawn you another blank. I've failed to sell you and, to be perfectly honest, you really don't do much to sell yourself. No good, no good, no good—we can't do any more here. Back with you to The Times advertisement columns, and the off-chance of running into a man who has just run into a man who could put you on to a thing. You ran into us. Well, that hasn't got you far. Better luck next time, old boy. Je n'en peux plus.
In fact, he constituted—today, by so mildly accepting, with his coffee, that there would be nothing more doing about this Shropshire thing, and at all times by the trustfulness of his frequentation of the Quaynes as a family—the same standing, or, better still, undermining reproach as Portia. He was not near enough their hearth, or long enough at it, to take back to Kensington with him any suspicion that the warmth he had found could be illusory. His unfulfilled wishes continued to flock and settle where the Quaynes were, and no doubt he thought of them in the lounge of his hotel, or walking along the Cromwell Road. No doubt he stayed himself on the idea of them when one more thing fell through, when