of the French windows and said, “Sybil’s too intellectual, that’s her trouble.” She patted her hair, then looked at Sybil with an old childish enmity.
After dinner Barry would read his poems. Usually, he said, “I’m not going to be an egotist tonight. I’m not going to read my poems.” And usually Désirée would cry. “Oh do, Barry, do.” Always, eventually, he did. “Marvellous.” Désirée would comment, “wonderful.” By the third night of her visits, the farcical aspect of it all would lose its fascination for Sybil, and boredom would fill her near to bursting point, like gas in a balloon. To relieve the strain, she would sigh deeply from time to time. Barry was too engrossed in his own voice to notice this, but Désirée was watching. At first Sybil worded her comments tactfully. “I think you should devote more of your time to your verses,” she said. And, since he looked puzzled, added, “You owe it to poetry if you write it.”
“Nonsense,” said Désirée, “he often writes a marvellous sonnet before shaving in the morning.”
“Sybil may be right,” said Barry. “I owe poetry all the time I can give.”
“Are you tired, Sybil?” said Désirée. “Why are you sighing like that; are you all right?”
Later, Sybil gave up the struggle and wearily said, “Very good,” or “Nice rhythm” after each poem. And even the guilt of condoning Désirée’s “marvellous … wonderful” was less than the guilt of her isolated mind. She did not know then that the price of allowing false opinions was the gradual loss of one’s capacity for forming true ones.
Not every morning, but at least twice during each visit Sybil would wake to hear the row in progress. The nanny, who brought her early tea, made large eyes and tiptoed warily. Sybil would have her bath, splashing a lot to drown the noise of the quarrel. Downstairs, the battle of voices descended, filled every room and corridor. When, on the worst occasions, the sound of shattering glass broke through the storm, Sybil would know that Barry was smashing up Désirée’s dressing-table; and would wonder how Désirée always managed to replace her crystal bowls, since goods of that type were now scarce, and why she bothered to do so. Sybil would always find the two girls of Barry’s former marriage standing side by side on the lawn frankly gazing up at the violent bedroom window. The nanny would cart off Désirée’s baby for a faraway walk. Sybil would likewise disappear for the morning.
The first time this happened, Désirée told her later, “I’m afraid you unsettle Barry.”
“What do you mean?” said Sybil.
Désirée dabbed her watery eyes and blew her nose. “Well, of course, it stands to reason, Sybil, you’re out to attract Barry. And he’s only a man. I know you do it unconsciously, but …”
“I can’t stand this sort of thing. I shall leave right away,” Sybil said.
“No, Sybil, no. Don’t make a thing of it. Barry needs you. You’re the only person in the Colony who can really talk to him about his poetry.”
“Understand,” said Sybil on that first occasion, “I am not at all interested in your husband. I think he’s an all-round third-rater. That is my opinion.”
Désirée looked savage. “Barry,” she shouted, “has made a fortune out of passion-fruit juice in eight years. He has sold four thousand copies of Home Thoughts on his own initiative.”
It was like a game for three players. According to the rules, she was to be in love, unconsciously, with Barry, and tortured by the contemplation of Désirée’s married bliss. She felt too old to join in, just at that moment.
Barry came to her room while she was packing. “Don’t go,” he said. “We need you. And after all, we are only human. What’s a row? These quarrels only happen in the best marriages. And I can’t for the life of me think how it started.”
“What a beautiful house. What a magnificent estate,” said Sybil’s hostess.
“Yes,” said Sybil, “it was the grandest in the Colony.”
“Were the owners frightfully grand?”
“Well, they were rich, of course.”
“I can see that. What a beautiful interior. I adore those lovely old oil lamps. I suppose you didn’t have electricity?”
“Yes, there was electric light in all the rooms. But my friends preferred the oil-lamp tradition for the dining-room. You see, it was a copy of an old Dutch house.”
“Absolutely charming.”
The reel came to an end. The lights went up and everyone shifted in their chairs.
“What were those large red flowers?” said the elderly lady.
“Flamboyants.”
“Magnificent,” said her hostess. “Don’t you miss the colours, Sybil?”
“No, I don’t, actually. There was too much of it for me.”
“You didn’t care for the bright colours?” said the young man, leaning forward eagerly.
Sybil smiled at him.
“I liked the bit where those little lizards were playing among the stones. That was an excellent shot,” said her host. He was adjusting the last spool.
“I rather liked that handsome blond fellow,” said her hostess, as if the point had been in debate. “Was he the passion-fruiter?”
“He was the manager,” said Sybil.
“Oh yes, you told me. He was in a shooting affair, did you say?”
“Yes, it was unfortunate.”
“Poor young man. It sounds quite a dangerous place. I suppose the sun and everything …”
“It was dangerous for some people. It depended.”
“The blacks look happy enough. Did you have any trouble with them in those days?”
“No,” said Sybil, “only with the whites.”
Everyone laughed.
“Right,” said her host. “Lights out, please.”
Sybil soon perceived the real cause of the Westons’ quarrels. It differed from their explanations: they were both, they said, so much in love, so jealous of each other’s relations with the opposite sex.
“Barry was furious,” said Désirée one day, “– weren’t you, Barry? – because I smiled, merely smiled, at Carter.”
“I’ll have it out with Carter,” muttered Barry. “He’s always hanging round Désirée.”
David Carter was their manager. Sybil was so foolish as once to say, “Oh surely David wouldn’t –”
“Oh wouldn’t he?” said Désirée.
“Oh wouldn’t he?” said Barry.
Possibly
