The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [148]
"It would not be that," said St. Quentin, quite frankly at bay. "But the point is, is there much point in my being here?"
"The point is, you're an old family friend."
The evening became more gloomy and overcast. Clouds made a steely premature dusk, and made the trees out in the park metallic. Anna had had the candles lit for dinner, but, because it should still be light, the curtains were not drawn. The big shell of columbines on the table looked theatrical in a livid way: out there on the lake the people went on rowing. Phyllis served dinner to Thomas, Anna, St. Quentin: no one looked at the time. Just after the duck came in, the diningroom telephone started ringing. They let it ring for some seconds while they looked at each other.
"I'll answer," said Anna—but not moving yet.
Thomas said: "No, I think I'd better go."
"I could, if you'd both rather," St. Quentin said.
"No, nonsense," said Anna. "Why shouldn't I? It may not even be anything at all."
St. Quentin steadily ate, his eyes fixed on his plate: Anna kept shifting her grip on the receiver. "Hullo?" she said. "Hullo?... Oh, hullo, Major Brutt...."
"Well, he says she's there," she said, sitting down again.
"Yes, I know, but where?" said Thomas. "Where does he say she is?"
"At his hotel," said Anna, with no expression. "That sort of hotel that he stays at, you know." She held outher glass for some more wine and then said: "Well, that is that, I suppose?"
"I suppose so," said Thomas, looking out of the window. St. Quentin said: "Does he say what she's doing there?"
"Just being there. She turned up."
"Now what, then?" Thomas said. "I take it he's going to bring her home?"
"No," said Anna, surprised. "He wasn't suggesting that. He—"
"Then what did he want?"
"To know what we meant to do."
"So you said?"
"You heard me—I said I'd ring up again."
"To say—I mean, what are we meaning to do?"
"If I had known, I'd have told him, wouldn't I, Thomas dear?"
"Why on earth not tell him, just bring her straight round? The old bastard's not as busy as that. We could give him a drink or something. Or why not just let him put her into a taxi? What could be simpler?"
"It's not so simple as that."
"I don't see why not. What are the complications? What in God's name was he chattering on about?"
Anna finished her wine, but after that only said: "Well, it could be simpler, if you know what I mean."
Thomas picked up his table napkin, wiped his mouth, glanced once across at St. Quentin, then said: "What you mean is, she won't come home?"
"She doesn't seem very keen to, just at the minute."
"Why just at the minute? Do you mean she'll come later?"
"She is waiting to see whether we do the right thing."
Thomas said nothing. He frowned, looked out of the window and rapped his thumbs on the table each side of his plate. "Then you mean, something is up?" he finally said.
"Major Brutt seemed to think so."
"Damn his eyes," Thomas said. "Why can't he keep out of this? What is it Anna? Have you any idea?"
"Yes, I must say I have. She thinks I read her diary."
"Does she keep a diary?"
"Yes, she does. And I do."
"Oh! Do you," said Thomas. Having seemed not to think of this for some time, he began to rap with his thumbs again.
"Darling, must you do that? You make all the glasses jump—No, it's not at all odd: it's the sort of thing I do do. Her diary's very good—you see, she has got us taped. Could I not go on with a book all about ourselves? I don't say it has changed the course of my life, but it's given me a rather more disagreeable feeling about being alive—or, at least, about being me."
"I can't see, all the same, why that should send her right off at the deep end. His hotel's right off in Kensington, isn't it? And why Brutt? Where does he come in?"
"He has sent her puzzles."
"Still, even that could be something," said St.