The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [50]
If Priscilla thought her husband still stationed on the East Coast, she would of course not expect to meet him here. On the face of it, there was no reason why she should not dine with Stevens, if he happened to be passing through London. A second’s thought showed that what seemed a piece of preposterous exhibitionism only presented that appearance on account of special knowledge acquired from Lovell. All the same, if Priscilla were dining here, that meant she had cut the Bijou Ardglass party. So unpredictably do human beings behave, she might even plan to take Stevens on there later.
“Is that her husband with her?” asked Mrs. Maclintick. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him. I suppose you look on him as the man who cut you out, Moreland?”
I was surprised she knew about Moreland’s former entanglement with Priscilla. No doubt Maclintick had spoken of it in the past. As Moreland himself had remarked, she and Maclintick must, at least some of the time, have enjoyed a closer, more amicable existence together than their acquaintances inclined to suppose. The Maclinticks could even have met Moreland and Priscilla at some musical event. Anyway, Mrs. Maclintick had turned out to know Priscilla by sight, had evidently gathered scraps of her story, at least so far as Moreland was concerned. That was all. She could not also be aware of other implications disturbing to myself. So far as Mrs. Maclintick’s knowledge went, therefore, Priscilla’s presence might be regarded as merely personally displeasing, in her capacity as a former love of Moreland’s. However, so developed was Mrs. Maclintick’s taste for malice, like everyone of her kind, that she seemed to know instinctively something inimical to myself, too, was in the air. Moreland, on the other hand, having talked with Lovell only a short time before, could not fail to suspect trouble of one sort or another was on foot. Never very good at concealing his feelings, he went red again. This change of colour was no doubt chiefly caused by Mrs. Maclintick’s not too delicate reference to himself, but probably he guessed something of my own sentiments as well.
“The girl’s Nick’s sister-in-law,” he said. “You seem to have forgotten that. I don’t know who the army type is.”
“Oh, yes, she’s your sister-in-law, isn’t she,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “Now I remember. Not bad looking. Got herself up for the occasion too, hasn’t she?”
Mrs. Maclintick did not elaborate why she thought Priscilla’s clothes deserved this comment, though they were certainly less informal than her own outfit. Priscilla’s appearance, at its most striking, made her not far short of a “beauty.” She looked striking enough now, though not in the best of humours. Her fair hair was longer than at Frederica’s, her face thinner. There was about her that taut, at the same time supple air, the yielding movement of body women sometimes display when conducting a love affair, like the physical pose of an athlete observed between contests. She had a high colour. Stevens, apparently in the best of spirits, was talking noisily. No escape was offered, even though they were the last people I wanted to run into at that moment. It seemed wise to prepare the ground with some explanation of why these two might reasonably be out together. This was perhaps instinctive, rather than logical, because Lovell himself had spoken as if the whole world knew about the affair.
“The man’s called Odo Stevens. I was on a course with him.”
“Oh, you know him, do you?” said Mrs. Maclintick. “He looks a bit…”
She did not finish the sentence. Although her comment was never revealed, one had the impression she grasped pretty well the essential aspects of Odo Stevens, even if only the superficial ones. No great psychological powers were required to make a reasonably accurate guess at these, anyway for immediate practical purposes, whatever might be found deeper down. At that moment Stevens caught sight of us. He waved. Then, at once, he spoke to