The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [149]
"I've got housemaid's tricks," Anna went on, "and more spare time than a housemaid. All the same, I should like to know how she knew I'd been at her diary. I put it back where it lives; I don't leave finger marks: I should have seen if she'd tied a thread round it. Matchett cannot have told her, because I never touch it unless I know Matchett is out.... That's what puzzles me. I really should like to know."
"Would you?" St. Quentin said. "Well, that's simple: I told her." He looked at Anna rather critically, as though she had just said some distinctly doubtful thing. The pause, through which Thomas made his steady aloofness felt,, was underlined by the swimming entrance of Phyllis, who changed the plates and brought in a strawberry comp6te. St. Quentin, left face to face with what he had just said, stayed composedly smiling and looking down. Meanwhile: "Oh, Phyllis," said Anna, "you might tell Matchett Miss Portia has rung up. She has been delayed; we're expecting her back later."
"Yes, madam. Should cook keep her dinner hot?"
"No," said Anna. "She will have had dinner." When Phyllis had gone, Anna picked her spoon up, looked at the strawberries, then said: "Oh, did you really, St. Quentin?"
"I suppose you want to know why?"
"No, I'd much rather not."
"How like Portia—she took no interest, either. Of course, Portia had had a shock, too, and though I felt very much moved to tell her about myself, she was in no mood to listen. As I said to her in Marylebone High Street, how completely closed we are to one another.... But what I should like to know is, how do you know she knows?"
"Yes, by the way," said Thomas, coming alive abruptly, "how do you know she knows?"
"I quite see," said Anna, slightly raising her voice, "that whatever anyone else may have done—betray confidences, or run off to Major Brutt—it is I who have been to blame, from the very start. Well listen, St. Quentin, listen, Thomas: Portia has not said a word about this to me. That would not be her way. No, she simply rang up Eddie, who rang me up to complain how unkind I'd been. That happened today. When did you tell her, St, Quentin?"
"Last Wednesday. I so well remember, because—"
"—Very well. Since Wednesday, something else must have happened to bring all this to a head. On Saturday I did think she looked odd. She came in and found Eddie here at tea. Possibly he and she blew off in some way when they were down at Seale. Perhaps Eddie got a fright."
"Yes, he's sensitive," said St. Quentin. "Do you mind if I smoke?" Having lighted cigarettes for himself and Anna, he added: "How I do hate Eddie."
"Yes, so do I," said Thomas.
"Thomas—you never said sol"
With a gigantic air of starting to ease himself, Thomas said: "Yes, he is such a little rat. And his work's been so specious. Merrett wants to fire him."
"You can't do that, Thomas: he'd starve. Why should Eddie starve simply because you don't like him?"
"Why should he not starve simply because you do? The principle seems to me the same throughout, and bad. Worse things happen to better people."
"Besides," St. Quentin said gently, "I don't think Eddie would starve. He'd turn up for meals here."
"No, you can't do that, Thomas," Anna wildly repeated, pulling her pearls round. "If he is being slack, simply give him a good fright. But you can't sack him right out of the blue. You've got nothing against him, except being such a donkey."
"Well, we can't afford donkeys at five pounds a week.
When you asked me to put him in, you insisted he was so bright—which I must say he was, for the first week. Why did you say he was bright if you say he is such a donkey, and if he's such a donkey, why is he always here?"
Anna looked at St. Quentin but did not look at Thomas. She left her pearls alone, ate a spoonful of compote, then said: "Because he is running after her."
"And you think that's a good thing?"
"I really could not tell you. After all, she's your sister. It was you who wanted to have her here. No, it's all right, St. Quentin, we're not having