The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [56]
“But it isn’t a blitz, sweetie,” he said. “There’s nothing to get worked up about.”
Although, in the light of his usual manner of addressing people, he might easily have called Mrs. Maclintick “sweetie,” this was, in fact, the first time he had spoken to Priscilla with that mixture of sharpness and affection that can suddenly reveal an intimate relationship.
“I know it isn’t a blitz,” she said. “We long ago decided that. I was just finding the conversation boring.”
“All right. Let’s talk of something else,” he said.
He spoke indulgently, but without grasping that something had gone badly wrong.
“I’ve got rather a headache.”
“Oh, sorry, darling. I thought you had the wind up.”
“Not in the least.”
“Why didn’t you say you had a head?”
“It’s only just started.”
She was looking furious now, furious and upset. I knew her well enough to be fairly used to Priscilla’s quickly changing moods, but her behaviour was now inexplicable to me, as it obviously was to Stevens. I imagined that, having decided a mistake had been made in allowing him to join our table, she had now settled on a display of bad temper as the best means of getting him away.
“Well, what would you like to do?” he said. “We’ve got nearly an hour still. Shall I take you somewhere quieter? It is rather airless and noisy in here.”
He seemed anxious to do anything he could to please her. Up till now they might have been any couple having dinner together, no suggestion of a particularly close bond, Stevens’s ease of manner concealing rather than emphasising what was happening. Now, however, his voice showed a mixture of concern and annoyance that gave more away about the pair of them. This change of tone was certainly due to incomprehension on his part, rather than any exhibitionistic desire to advertise that Priscilla was his mistress; although he might well have been capable of proclaiming that fact in other company.
“Where?” she said.
This was not a question. It was a statement to express the truth that no place existed in this neighbourhood where they could go, and be likely to find peace and quiet.
“We’ll look for somewhere.”
She fixed her eyes on him. There was silence for a moment.
“I think I’ll make for home.”
‘But aren’t you coming to see me off – you said you were.”
“I’ve got a splitting headache,” she said. “I’ve suddenly begun to feel perfectly awful, too, for some reason. Simply dreadful.”
“Not up to coming to the station?”
“Sorry.”
She was nearly in tears. Stevens plainly had no idea what had gone wrong. I could not guess either, unless the comparative indifference of his mood – after what had no doubt been a passionate interlude of several days – had upset her. However, although young, and, until recently, probably not much accustomed to girls of Priscilla’s type, he was sufficiently experienced with women in general to have certain settled principles in dealing with situations of this kind. At any rate, he was now quite decisive.
“I’ll take you back then.”
Faced with the prospect of abandoning a party where he had begun to be enjoyably the centre of attention, Stevens spoke without a great deal of enthusiasm, at the same time with complete sincerity. The offer was a genuine one, not a polite fiction to be brushed aside on the grounds he had a train to catch. He intended to go through with the proposal. Certainly it was the least he could do, but, at the same time, considering Priscilla’s demeanour and what I knew of his own character, even this minimum was to display magnanimity of a sort. He accepted her sudden decision with scarcely any demur. Priscilla seemed to appreciate that
“No.”
She spoke quite firmly.
“Of course I will.”
“You’ve got all your stuff here. You can’t lug it back to Kensington.”
“I’ll pick it up here again after I’ve dropped you.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Of course I can.”
“No …” she said. “I’d much rather you didn’t… I don’t quite know … I just feel suddenly rather odd … I can’t think what it is … I mean I’d rather be alone … Must be alone…”
The situation had become