said sharply:
‘You know nothing about it—or about him. You couldn’t begin to know!’
Without any air of changing the conversation David asked:
‘What do you think of Rosaleen?’
‘She’s very lovely.’
‘What else?’
‘She doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself.’
‘Quite right,’ said David, ‘Rosaleen’s rather stupid. She’s scared. She always has been rather scared. She drifts into things and then doesn’t know what it’s all about. Shall I tell you about Rosaleen?’
‘If you like,’ said Lynn politely.
‘I do like. She started by being stage-struck and drifted on to the stage. She wasn’t any good, of course. She got into a third-rate touring company that was going out to South Africa. She liked the sound of South Africa. The company got stranded in Cape Town. Then she drifted into marriage with a Government official from Nigeria. She didn’t like Nigeria—and I don’t think she liked her husband much. If he’d been a hearty sort of fellow who drank and beat her, it would have been all right. But he was rather an intellectual man who kept a large library in the wilds and who liked to talk metaphysics. So she drifted back to Cape Town again. The fellow behaved very well and gave her an adequate allowance. He might have given her a divorce, but again he might not for he was a Catholic; but anyway he rather fortunately died of fever, and Rosaleen got a small pension. Then the war started and she drifted on to a boat for South America. She didn’t like South America very much, so she drifted on to another boat and there she met Gordon Cloade and told him all about her sad life. So they got married in New York and lived happily for a fortnight, and a little later he was killed by a bomb and she was left a large house, a lot of expensive jewellery, and an immense income.’
‘It’s nice that the story has such a happy ending,’ said Lynn.
‘Yes,’ said David Hunter. ‘Possessing no intellect at all, Rosaleen has always been a lucky girl—which is just as well. Gordon Cloade was a strong old man. He was sixty-two. He might easily have lived for twenty years. He might have lived even longer. That wouldn’t have been much fun for Rosaleen, would it? She was twenty-four when she married him. She’s only twenty-six now.’
‘She looks even younger,’ said Lynn.
David looked across the table. Rosaleen Cloade was crumbling her bread. She looked like a nervous child.
‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘She does. Complete absence of thought, I suppose.’
‘Poor thing,’ said Lynn suddenly.
David frowned.
‘Why the pity?’ he said sharply. ‘I’ll look after Rosaleen.’
‘I expect you will.’
He scowled.
‘Any one who tries to do down Rosaleen has got me to deal with! And I know a good many ways of making war—some of them not strictly orthodox.’
‘Am I going to hear your life history now?’ asked Lynn coldly.
‘A very abridged edition.’ He smiled. ‘When the war broke out I saw no reason why I should fight for England. I’m Irish. But like all the Irish, I like fighting. The Commandos had an irresistible fascination for me. I had some fun but unfortunately I got knocked out with a bad leg wound. Then I went to Canada and did a job of training fellows there. I was at a loose end when I got Rosaleen’s wire from New York saying she was getting married! She didn’t actually announce that there would be pickings, but I’m quite sharp at reading between the lines. I flew there, tacked myself on to the happy pair and came back with them to London. And now’—he smiled insolently at her—‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea. That’s you! And the Hunter home from the Hill. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ said Lynn.
She got up with the others. As they went into the drawing-room, Rowley said to her: ‘You seemed to be getting on quite well with David Hunter. What were you talking about?’
‘Nothing particular,’ said Lynn.
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