thoughts veered rapidly to Valentine herself.
"How good you are, to have let me go on and on, telling you all this! Have I tired you out?"
"No. I wanted to hear."
In the silence that followed Lonergan knew that, into her mind as into his, had come the remembrance of the two children they had once been, making love in the Pincio Gardens by a broken fountain.
"You didn't altogether forget, then. I mean that time in Rome?"
"I know what you mean. I did, and I didn't. There have been years during which I never thought about it at all, if that's forgetting—and yet every now and then I've got back the—the atmosphere of those afternoons and——"
She left a blank to complete the sentence, not, he thought, as though the word she wanted had eluded her but of deliberate intention. With all her poise, all the finished social technique that belonged to her class and her upbringing and was in her so highly developed, he found in Valentine the delicate shyness of a young—a very gracefully young—girl.
"It's been like that with me too," he told her. "I've forgotten for years at a time, and I've turned into quite another person since then, so that I can't even always remember what I was like, or what I thought I was like, in those days—but it used to come back to life with me too, sometimes. And when I saw you this afternoon, I remembered you perfectly. I think that was a queer thing, too."
"Yes."
"How simply you say 'Yes' as though it didn't surprise you at all, and you'd felt just the same."
"Oh, but I did," Valentine answered.
The gentle, candid manner in which she made the admission dumbfounded him completely.
He thought: "It's no good. I'm in love with her. I adore her." And following on the conviction came its graceless, inevitable concomitant: "God, what a muddle! What a complicated, god-damned muddle!"
A clock chimed, startlingly audible in the silence, and Valentine said:
"It's late. Did you mean to do any work to-night?"
"No. I wanted to talk with you. When you went up to show Sedgewick his room, I was afraid you mightn't come down again. I was terrified you wouldn't."
"But I wanted to," returned Valentine, and he thought how far removed was the quiet, considered way in which she said it from the quality, to him detestable, implied in the odious word "coquettish".
"I've talked to you a lot about myself, and you've listened so graciously—won't you tell me a little about what's happened to you, since the time in Rome?"
"In terms of actual happening, very little, and what there was, all came quite close together—between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one, really. When the war started my father sent my mother and me back to London and we took a flat in Sloane Street. It seems absurd now, but in spite of the war I came out in the way girls did then—one had to be presented at a Royal garden-party instead of at a drawing-room and so on—and I did some very casual war work that really only meant getting to know other girls."
Lonergan noticed her old-fashioned, oddly elegant pronunciation of the word and smiled at it.
She smiled back, in a shy, friendly way as though she understood what had amused and perhaps pleased him.
"I think my mother was afraid of my being at a disadvantage, because of having lived abroad so much. But all our relations were very kind and everyone was giving informal dances and parties, that were supposed to be for men home on leave, from the Front. I expect I had more fun, really, than I should have had before the war, doing the London season properly. Every girl I ever knew seems to have hated her first season."
"You know," said Lonergan, "that you're talking about a world of which I know absolutely nothing whatever? I don't mean—I've no need to tell you—that I'm not interested. But my own origin is so completely different—middle-class Irish. I know nothing whatever about the kind of background you're describing. Forgive me. I didn't want to interrupt you. Please go on. Were you happy, going to the dances and parties?"
"I was very young for my age. I think perhaps very young people aren't really happy but they always think that one day they're going to be. I used to feel quite certain that happiness of some marvellous kind must be waiting for me just round the corner."
"Was it?"
"Well, no. I can't say that. I don't mean at all that my life has been an unhappy one."
She paused.
Lonergan guessed that she was finding it difficult, for a moment, to go on.
He thought: "Give her time. She'll tell me," and he remained motionless.
"I suppose by happiness I really meant falling in love and getting married. And that's what happened."
Lonergan experienced the onslaught of a sharp, furious jealousy.
He had seen the portrait of Humphrey Arbell hanging in the hall, and he had—he now knew—assumed that Valentine had never been in love with him.
Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said:
"You were very young, when you fell in love and married."
"Nineteen. I met Humphrey when I went to stay with his sister, Venetia Rockingham. Charlie—her husband—was in Palestine and she was using their house at Maidenhead as a convalescent home for officers. Humphrey was there. He was one of the wounded officers. There was a sort of glamour about them, you know——"
She broke off, and said with a kind of mirthful distress:
"What a thing to say! And yet it's perfectly true. That sort of glamour was responsible for a lot of love-affairs in the last war."
"Of course."
He would have liked to know whether it had been responsible for her marriage to Humphrey Arbell, but would assail her with no crude questions.
Presently she said:
"A week-end can be a very long while. Humphrey fell in love with me—and I thought about him a lot, and Venetia asked me to come back again the next week-end, and I did. It was really a very obvious and straightforward affair I suppose—only one never feels that about oneself. Humphrey and I were engaged three weeks after we first met, and then he was given sick leave and we got married. We thought he was going back to the Front, but he never did. The Medical Board wouldn't pass him."
Valentine stopped speaking, and again Lonergan refrained from breaking in on her train of thought.
When she turned towards him again it was, once more, to surprise him.
"Those are just facts, aren't they, and facts all by themselves convey so little. I could tell you that Humphrey and I came to live here when the war was over, and that I had two children—and you still wouldn't really know much about my life."
"Were you happy?" he asked.
Valentine smiled suddenly at that, as though he had pleased her unexpectedly.
"That's the question I always
