in capital letters. ‘I shall sell this place. What it has meant to me no one will ever know.’ His voice dropped, lingeringly … effectively.
After an evening of second fiddle, Sir Charles’s egoism was taking its revenge. This was the great Renunciation Scene, so often played by him in sundry and divers dramas. Giving Up the Other Man’s Wife, Renouncing the Girl he Loved.
There was a brave flippancy in his voice as he went on.
‘Cut your losses—it’s the only way … Youth to youth … They’re made for each other, those two … I shall clear out …’
‘Where to?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.
The actor made a careless gesture.
‘Anywhere. What does it matter?’ He added with a slight change of voice, ‘Probably Monte Carlo.’ And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, ‘In the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowd—what does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitary—alone. I have always been—a lonely soul …’
It was clearly an exit line.
He nodded to Mr Satterthwaite and left the room.
Mr Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed.
‘But it won’t be the heart of a desert,’ he thought to himself with a slight chuckle.
On the following morning Sir Charles begged Mr Satterthwaite to forgive him if he went up to town that day.
‘Don’t cut your visit short, my dear fellow. You were staying till tomorrow, and I know you’re going on to the Harbertons at Tavistock. The car will take you there. What I feel is that, having come to my decision, I mustn’t look back. No, I mustn’t look back.’
Sir Charles squared his shoulders with manly resolution, wrung Mr Satterthwaite’s hand with fervour and delivered him over to the capable Miss Milray.
Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with the situation as she had dealt with any other. She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir Charles’s overnight decision. Nor could Mr Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither sudden deaths nor sudden changes of plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted whatever happened as a fact and proceeded to cope with it in an efficient way. She telephoned to the house agents, despatched wires abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter. Mr Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling down to the quay. He was walking aimlessly along when he was seized by the arm from behind, and turned to confront a white-faced girl.
‘What’s all this?’ demanded Egg fiercely.
‘All what?’ parried Mr Satterthwaite.
‘It’s all over the place that Sir Charles is going away—that he’s going to sell Crow’s Nest.’
‘Quite true.’
‘He is going away?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Oh!’ Egg relinquished his arm. She looked suddenly like a very small child who has been cruelly hurt.
Mr Satterthwaite did not know what to say.
‘Where has he gone?’
‘Abroad. To the South of France.’
‘Oh!’
Still he did not know what to say. For clearly there was more than hero worship here …
Pitying her, he was turning over various consolatory words in his mind when she spoke again—and startled him.
‘Which of those damned bitches is it?’ asked Egg fiercely.
Mr Satterthwaite stared at her, his mouth fallen open in surprise. Egg took him by the arm again and shook him violently.
‘You must know,’ she cried. ‘Which of them? The grey-haired one or the other?’
‘My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You do. You must. Of course it’s some woman. He liked me—I know he liked me. One of those women the other night must have seen it, too, and determined to get him away from me. I hate women. Lousy cats. Did you see her clothes—that one with the green hair? They made me gnash my teeth with envy. A woman who has clothes like that has a pull—you can’t deny it. She’s quite old and ugly as sin, really, but what does it matter. She makes everyone else look like a dowdy curate’s wife. Is it her? Or is it the other one with the grey hair? She’s amusing—you can see that. She’s got masses of S.A. And he called her Angie. It can’t be the one like a wilted cabbage. Is it the smart one or is it Angie?’
‘My dear, you’ve got the most extraordinary ideas into your head. He—er—Charles Cartwright isn’t the least interested in either of those women.’
‘I don’t believe you. They’re interested in him, anyway …’
‘No, no, no, you’re making a mistake. This is all imagination.’
‘Bitches,’ said Egg. ‘That’s what they are!’
‘You mustn’t use that word, my dear.’
‘I can think of a lot worse things to say than that.’
‘Possibly, possibly, but pray don’t do so. I can assure you that you are labouring under a misapprehension.’
‘Then why has he gone away—like this?’
Mr Satterthwaite cleared his throat.
‘I fancy he—er—thought it best.’
Egg stared at him piercingly.
‘Do you mean—because of me?’
‘Well—something of the kind, perhaps.’
‘And so he’s legged it. I suppose I did show my hand a bit plainly … Men do hate being chased, don’t they? Mums is right, after all … You’ve no idea how sweet she is when she talks about men. Always in the third person—so Victorian and polite. “A man hates being run after; a girl should always let the man make the running.” Don’t you think it’s a sweet expression—make the running? Sounds the opposite of what it means. Actually that’s just what Charles has done—made the running. He’s running away from me. He’s afraid. And the devil of it is, I can’t go after him. If I did I suppose he’d take a boat to the wilds of Africa or somewhere.’
‘Hermione,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘are you serious about Sir Charles?’
The girl flung him an impatient glance.
‘Of course I am.’
‘What about Oliver Manders?’
Egg dismissed Oliver Manders with an impatient whisk of the head. She was following out a train of thought of her own.
‘Do
