woman who’s had a man to torture for years when she loses him?’ the priest asked. ‘The more she’s made an occupation of torturing him, the less right she thinks she has to lose him.’
Mrs Satterthwaite looked gloomily into the dusk.
‘That poor devil . . . ’ she said. ‘Will he get any peace anywhere? . . . What’s the matter, Father?’
The Father said:
‘I’ve just remembered she gave me tea and cream and I drank it. Now I can’t take mass for Father Reinhardt. I’ll have to go and knock up his curate, who lives away in the forest.’
At the door, holding the candle, he said:
‘I’d have you not get up to-day nor yet to-morrow, if ye can stand it. Have a headache and let Sylvia nurse you . . . You’ll have to tell how she nursed you when you get back to London. And I’d rather ye didn’t lie more out and out than ye need, if it’s to please me . . . Besides, if ye watch Sylvia nursing you, you might hit on a characteristic touch to make it seem more truthful . . . How her sleeves brushed the medicine bottles and irritated you, maybe . . . or—you’ll know! If we can save scandal to the congregation, we may as well.’
He ran downstairs.
3
At the slight creaking made by Macmaster in pushing open his door, Tietjens started violently. He was sitting in a smoking-jacket, playing patience engrossedly in a sort of garret bedroom. It had a sloping roof outlined by black oak beams, which cut into squares the cream-coloured patent distemper of the walls. The room contained also a four-post bedstead, a corner cupboard in black oak, and many rush mats on a polished oak floor of very irregular planking. Tietjens, who hated these disinterred and waxed relics of the past, sat in the centre of the room at a flimsy card-table beneath a white-shaded electric light of a brilliance that, in these surroundings, appeared unreasonable. This was one of those restored old groups of cottages that it was at that date the fashion to convert into hostelries. To it Macmaster, who was in search of the inspiration of the past, had preferred to come. Tietjens, not desiring to interfere with his friend’s culture, had accepted the quarters, though he would have preferred to go to a comfortable modern hotel as being less affected and cheaper. Accustomed to what he called the grown-oldness of a morose, rambling Yorkshire manor house, he disliked being among collected and rather pitiful bits which, he said, made him feel ridiculous, as if he were trying to behave seriously at a fancy-dress ball. Macmaster, on the other hand, with gratification and a serious air, would run his finger tips along the bevellings of a darkened piece of furniture, and would declare it ‘genuine Chippendale’ or ‘Jacobean oak,’ as the case might be. And he seemed to gain an added seriousness and weight of manner with each piece of ancient furniture that down the years he thus touched. But Tietj ens would declare that you could tell the beastly thing was a fake by just cocking an eye at it and, if the matter happened to fall under the test of professional dealers in old furniture, Tietjens was the more often in the right of it, and Macmaster, sighing slightly, would prepare to proceed still further along the difficult road to connoisseurship. Eventually, by conscientious study, he got so far as at times to be called in by Somerset House to value great properties for probate—an occupation at once distinguished and highly profitable.
Tietjens swore with the extreme vehemence of a man who has been made, but who much dislikes being seen, to start.
Macmaster—in evening dress he looked extremely miniature!—said:
‘I’m sorry, old man, I know how much you dislike being interrupted. But the General is in a terrible temper.’
Tietjens rose stiffly, lurched over to an eighteenth-century rosewood folding washstand, took from its top a glass of flat whisky and soda, and gulped down a large quantity. He looked about uncertainly, perceived a notebook on a ‘Chippendale’ bureau, made a short calculation in pencil and looked at his friend momentarily.
Macmaster said again:
‘I’m sorry, old man. I must have interrupted one of your immense calculations.’
Tietjens said:
‘You haven’t. I was only thinking. I’m just as glad you’ve come. What did you say?’
Macmaster repeated:
‘I said, the General is in a terrible temper. It’s just as well you didn’t come up to dinner.’
Tietjens said:
‘He isn’t . . . He isn’t in a temper. He’s as pleased as punch at not having to have these women up before him.’ Macmaster said:
‘He says he’s got the police scouring the whole county for them, and that you’d better leave by the first train tomorrow.’
Tietjens said:
‘I won’t. I can’t. I’ve got to wait here for a wire from Sylvia.’
Macmaster groaned:
‘Oh dear! oh dear!’ Then he said hopefully: ‘But we could have it forwarded to Hythe.’
Tietjens said with some vehemence:
‘I tell you I won’t leave here. I tell you I’ve settled it with the police and that swine of a Cabinet Minister. I’ve mended the leg of the canary of the wife of the police-constable. Sit down and be reasonable. The police don’t touch people like us.’
Macmaster said:
‘I don’t believe you realise the public feeling there is . . . ’
‘Of course I do, amongst people like Sandbach,’ Tietjens said. ‘Sit down I tell you . . . Have some whisky . . . ’ He filled himself out another long tumbler, and, holding it, dropped into a too low-seated, reddish wicker armchair that had cretonne fixings. Beneath his weight the chair sagged a good deal and his dress-shirt bulged up to his chin.
Macmaster said:
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Tietjens’ eyes were bloodshot.
‘I tell you,’ Tietjens said, ‘I’m waiting for a wire from Sylvia.’
Macmaster said:
‘Oh!’ And then: ‘It can’t come to-night, it’s getting on for one.’
‘It can,’ Tietjens said, ‘I’ve fixed it up with the postmaster—all the way up to Town! It probably won’t come because Sylvia won’t send it until the last moment, to bother me. None the less, I’m waiting for a wire from Sylvia and this is what I look like.’
Macmaster said:
‘That woman’s the cruellest beast . . . ’
‘You might,’ Tietjens interrupted, ‘remember that you’re talking about my wife.’
‘I don’t see,’ Macmaster said, ‘how one can talk about Sylvia without . . . ’
‘The line is a perfectly simple one
