Mr. Bolham had tried to show an interest in the life and circumstances of his secretary, to the terror and horror of Denis, whose private life was even more complicated than are most private lives, being hedged about by a number of small, sordid, makeshift arrangements, of which he was intensely ashamed, and punctuated by the jobs that he had obtained through personal interest, and lost through incompetence.
In addition, the varied aspects of himself that he was in the habit of presenting to the world would, Denis felt certain, lay him open to a charge of insincerity if any of his employers, friends, or acquaintances should ever meet and compare notes. He was therefore at continual pains to con ceal the identity of these one from another. All these fears—added to his original fear of the penetrating and cynical eye of Mr. Bolham, which was increasing daily—combined to turn their tête-à-tête meals into an ordeal that Denis found little short of purgatorial, nor was it much more endurable to Mr. Bolham.
"I hope you have some work for me this evening, sir," Denis said uncertainly, after a protracted silence.
"Nothing this evening, thank you. Go out—go down to the Casino—swim by moonlight. Anything you like."
"I dare say I shall take a walk. I'm used to a great deal of exercise," replied Denis. He made such statements entirely at random, scarcely stopping to reflect whether they were true or untrue, driven only by his anxiety to impress, and—in this case—by a nagging suspicion that Mr. Bolham thought him deficient in manliness.
"Walk by all means," replied his employer. "Will you have coffee?"
"Thank you so much—if you're having some."
"Un café," said Mr. Bolham to the waiter.
He knew that Denis knew that he never took coffee, and Denis was aware that he knew it. Nevertheless, Denis was compelled to utter his little meaningless formula of conditional acceptance. He wanted coffee because he was naturally greedy, and because he had often been so poor that it was almost impossible to him to refuse anything that would be paid for by somebody else.
In the condition of inward conflict that was his usual state of mind, Denis followed Mr. Bolham from the dining-room.
As he went, he was alert to catch the eye of anyone who might possibly be looking at him. It gave him self-confidence to be recognised, and it also, subconsciously, made him feel safer. If he was looking at the people whom he passed, then they could not, themselves, be watching him unobserved.
"Waller, are you doing anything after dinner?" asked Buckland, as he went past.
"Nothing very special. Not in the early part of the evening, at any rate."
People might think that he wasn't any good at his job if he had too much free time. He had hinted once or twice before that much of his work was done in the silence of the night. And indeed, he would willingly have worked at so suitable and dramatic an hour had Mr. Bolham suggested it. But Mr. Bolham never did.
"Come along with us, and pay a call on a celebrated lady-novelist. We'll make a party of it, won't we?" Buckland appealed to Mrs. Romayne.
"That's right. The new people are coming along—their name's Moon. They've got a letter of introduction or something. We'll make a night of it. Can't you get Mr. Bolham to come too, Mr. Waller?"
"I think he has some reading he wants to do. But I should be very pleased indeed—that is to say, if it isn't an intrusion——"
"We'll go in the car," said Mrs. Romayne, powdering her nose.
"Thank you so much. I should be delighted to come. Thank you."
With a little bow, he moved on.
"Ass!" said Mrs. Romayne, audibly.
Denis supposed that she was addressing Buckland. He thought her a dreadful woman, but he wanted to meet young Mrs. Moon, whose looks he had admired very much on the terrace that afternoon, and he was excited at the idea of going to see a celebrated novelist. He wished that he had ever read any of her books.
In the hall, Mr. Bolham was talking to Mrs. Morgan. He had taken a chair, and the coffee—Denis's coffee—was on a little table in front of him.
Denis nervously poured some out into the cup. Then he saw Gwennie Morgan, and instinctively he smiled at her, and for a moment forgot Denis Waller.
"I'm sorry to say I've got to go to bed," announced Gwennie resentfully. "I suppose you're going to have a marvellous time."
"Not specially, Gwennie. I'm going to be taken by Mrs. Romayne to call on a lady who writes books."
"That's much more exciting than just going to bed. Is Patrick Romayne going with you?"
"I don't know. I hope he is."
"Why?"
"Well, I think he's a very nice boy, don't you?" Denis enquired mildly.
He remembered with genuine compassion that Patrick was in need of help. Denis had meant —and still meant—to try and gain an influence over him. Service, thought Denis vaguely and splendidly .... Service and brotherhood....
"Oh, Mr. Waller," said the breathless voice of Dulcie Courteney. "Oh, I must tell you,—what do you think?—Pops is arriving to-morrow! Isn't it lovely?"
"How exciting," said Denis sympathetically. "You didn't think he'd be coming so soon, did you?"
"No, Mr. Waller, I didn't. It's lovely, isn't it? I must tell Mrs. Morgan."
She told Mrs. Morgan, who made suitable reply, and was backed up by an indeterminate murmur from Mr. Bolham, and then Dulcie looked all round the hall.
"I feel I simply must tell everyone," she announced in her lisping treble. "You see, it's so lovely for me. I do love my Pops. You see, I haven't got a mummie, like Gwennie and Olwen have, and so Pops means just everything to me."
She flitted off, and Denis, who was really rather touched, observed: "Poor little thing!"
"Poor little thing nothing," harshly and unexpectedly exclaimed Mrs. Romayne at his elbow. "That kid makes me perfectly sick, with her Pops this and Pops the other. No wonder she hasn't got a mother! Any woman would leave a child like that."
"If you had a child like that, would you leave her?" enquired Gwennie with assumed artlessness.
Her mother said: "Good-night, Gwennie. Go now," and Mrs. Romayne laughed.
"I like Gwennie," she said good-temperedly. "She's so downright. Well, boys and girls, what about it? The car's outside."
She swept out, with the air of one making an exit.
Denis, following with Buckland, heard Mrs. Morgan's low, clear voice addressing Mr. Bolham.
"I don't think I should exactly call Gwennie downright, myself. She's much too Welsh."
"Personally, I should say she was abominably and precociously subtle-minded," said Mr. Bolham, and they both laughed.
Denis was quite startled at the sound of a laugh from his employer.
