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  “I do my best work at night, mater. You know that. And there are weeks when I don’t touch a pen from one day’s end to another.”

  “My dear, if you’re selfish in refusing to—to adapt yourself to Elizabeth, it’s unfair to her. I think you’ve got a long way to go—both of you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Towards the end of October Stephen’s pen began to run dry; he grew restless, short-tempered, and finally decided that he would give up attempting to write for a few weeks. So the manuscript was locked in a drawer, and Stephen emerged from his absorption. He suggested that they should go to London for a time; Elizabeth was only too delighted. She had contrived to amuse herself successfully, with the house and the garden, and the car, which she had learned to drive, but these were, after all, only Things. She longed to see her family again, and London; she longed too to be free from Queen’s Halt and its traditions just for a short breathing space, and to escape from Nina, with her abstruse witticisms, and flood of reminiscence. Those reminiscences galled Elizabeth, but she had not the courage to say so. Sooner or later, when Stephen and Nina were together, would crop up those deadly words, Do you remember? To the third person who did not remember, who did not know, or want to know, the people mentioned, who saw no humour in the old jokes and catchwords, the reminiscences were not only boring, but unbelievably annoying. They implied a close intimacy between Stephen and Nina, an age-long friendship, and a perfect understanding.

  So Elizabeth was glad to leave Queen’s Halt, even though it meant hotel life for a spell. That did not seem to matter, somehow, especially since they were to have a private sitting-room. The sitting-room was Stephen’s suggestion: he thought she would not care to entertain her friends in the public lounge. In little things like that which had to do with her comfort and well-being, he was consideration itself. She realised that she had still only to mention a wish. If it were in his power to do so, he would grant it at once.

  The Ardens welcomed Elizabeth to town with open arms; she was often at the Boltons, trying to feel that the old life was not closed to her. But it was closed, and she knew it. It was left far behind, just as far behind as the new life was far ahead.

  She was pleased to see Sarah again. Sarah was going to Switzerland for winter-sports; it was fun to help choose the clothes she would need. She and Sarah shopped together, and went to picture-galleries while Stephen held long business interviews with his agent, and other people. Elizabeth was not interested in business; she did not want to know that Stephen had sold his Rubber shares and was doing a little flutter in Oil; she was not really interested to hear that he had changed his publisher. She did not appreciate the significance of publishers.

  Cynthia and Anthony had returned from Scotland, and Cynthia was making a determined effort to become intimate with Elizabeth. Elizabeth wished that she would not; Mrs. Ramsay she had come to love; Cynthia she felt she could never love.

  “What’s Stephen’s book like?” Cynthia asked. “The institution of Norman was a splash of genius.”

  “He’s only done half,” Elizabeth answered. “It’s clever, I think.”

  “Yes, cleverness is his besetting sin,” Cynthia said. “That, and facility.”

  Elizabeth did not quite understand.

  “Facility? But—”

  “You don’t agree? I think he writes too easily. Nicely balanced sentences trickle off his pen, and he doesn’t have to prune or re-write.”

  “I should have thought that that was an advantage.”

  “From the viewpoint of celerity, undoubtedly,” Cynthia said curtly.

  That was how Cynthia puzzled you. She said things that you felt to be clever, or apt, yet that you could not understand. Elizabeth, instead of meeting bluntness with bluntness, would nod wisely, and never say in frankness, I don’t understand; please explain. She hoped all the time that no one would perceive her ignorance, or think her dull and stupid.

  She was rather surprised to find that with her own family she could talk, quite brightly, rather like Stephen, or Nina. Lawrence said again that she had blossomed forth. With him she felt that she had; with her husband, and his family, the old reticence and nervousness returned.

  At a subscription dance to which she and Stephen, and the Ruthvens went, she met Wendell.

  Wendell was tall, and dark, with very soft brown eyes, and a smiling face. Stephen, when he was dancing with Elizabeth, saw him, and exclaimed.

  “Hullo! There’s old Wendell!”

  “Who is he?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Chap who was in my battalion out in Flanders. Very cheery.” He piloted Elizabeth across the room, and managed to attract Wendell’s attention. After the dance Wendell came to the Ramsay table, and Stephen introduced him to Elizabeth. He looked at her in admiration; Stephen said that he must come to dinner with them one night.

  “I’d love to!” Wendell said eagerly. “Topping to meet you again!”

  Elizabeth was at her best in moments like these. She smiled, and endorsed Stephen’s invitation, and said that she would write and suggest a day. Wendell thanked her and said that it was awfully good of her. Then he had to hurry back to his own party, and they did not speak to him again that evening.

  He came to dine with them later in the week, alone, and Elizabeth liked him. He was gay, and he made jokes that she could follow. She wondered rather what Stephen found attractive in him, for he was certainly not particularly clever, and quite ignorant of matters literary. He and Stephen “talked War,” and Elizabeth listened with interest. That type of reminiscence was not galling, but amusing. Then, too, Wendell evidently thought her charming. She read the admiration in his eyes, and expanded to it. She was at her best, and she knew that she was being a good hostess for once.

  “I say, Mrs. Ramsay, isn’t it a bit strenuous being married to a gilded novelist? D’you have to make learned remarks about his books? Jolly fatiguing, what?”

  “Oh, no!” she answered, laughing. “I don’t know enough about novel-writing to criticise. All I do is to drag him away from his work to come and talk to me.”

  “Shouldn’t think he needs much dragging,” Wendell said.

  Elizabeth dimpled.

  “Oh yes, he does! While he’s writing he hasn’t any use for me. I think he’s in love with his heroine—I mean, the girl in his book.”

  “What an unblushing lie!” Stephen remarked.

  “P’raps his heroine is you,” suggested Wendell.

  “Me? Good gracious, no! She’s a dreadful creature!”

  Then they all laughed, Elizabeth too, when she realized what she had said.

  They went into the billiard-room after dinner, and as no one else was there, Elizabeth let Stephen and Wendell teach her how to play. She enjoyed that, even when she miscued three times in succession. Stephen said, Rotten!

  Wendell told him to shut up. He assured Elizabeth that she was learning fast, and would make a fine player. They played three-handed billiards, and Wendell had Elizabeth as his partner.

  “As a handicap?” she asked, smiling.

  “Not much! Come on, Mrs. Ramsay, we’ll have to pull our socks up with a vengeance. Stephen’s played the game before.”

  He was a delightful partner; he coached her zealously, in spite of a running fire of commentary from Stephen.

  “Now then, Mrs. Ramsay, we’ve got him on toast. If you can cannon off the white on to that cushion, with just a leetle left-hand side on, you’ll—”

  “If you tell her to put side on she won’t hit it at all,” Stephen interrupted.

  “Don’t be so rude!” Elizabeth protested. “Go on, Mr. Wendell, I’m listening.”

  “Well, you want to hit the white very nearly half-ball, then you’ll cannon off this cushion on to the red.”

  “Not she,” said Stephen. “Look here, darling! aim to hit the red half-ball—don’t bother about any side—and the chances are you’ll go into the middle pocket.”

  “Shut up, Stephen; you’re muddling me. Will y
ou mind if I miss this, Mr. Wendell?”

  “No, rather not. Yes, that’s right. Let your cue follow.”

  Of course she did miss the shot, and Stephen said, I told you so. Wendell was more complimentary.

  “Jolly good attempt. Just hadn’t got legs enough. Hullo, look at old Stephen! Billiards by One Who Knows. Well, let’s see what we can do with it.”

  They played until two men who were staying in the hotel came in. Then Elizabeth put up her cue, and sat down to watch.

  Decidedly the evening was a success.

  After that they saw Wendell often. He asked them to dine with him, and go to a theatre. The piece was a revue, but Elizabeth enjoyed every moment of it. They went to supper afterwards at the Savoy, a thing Elizabeth had never done before.

  “You like Wendell?” Stephen asked her, later.

  “Oh, yes! Don’t you?” she replied.

  “Quite a good chap. We must get him to come down to the Halt some time or other. Did I hear you say you were going with him to Twickenham?”

  “He did ask me,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen a Rugger-match. Do you mind if I go, Stephen?”

  “Mind? Good lord, no, darling! Why should I?”

  She went with Wendell, several times. He made one of the party Stephen got up to go to Sandown Park; he formed a habit of ringing up many times in the week to see whether the Ramsays couldn’t come along with him to a show that night, or a motor-drive that afternoon. Easily, almost unconsciously, he and Elizabeth drifted into close friendship. Christian names came naturally; it was as though she had known Wendell all her life. In conversation with him no mental effort was required; sometimes, even, she felt herself to be intellectually his superior. That was rather a refreshing change. It was she who suggested that he should visit them at the Halt. He jumped at the invitation.

  “I say, how topping! Yes, I’d love to. Please don’t forget, Betty, or I shall be compelled to remind you!”

  “No, I won’t forget,” she promised. “Only I’m afraid it will be rather dull for you. We haven’t got a hard court, but there are some golf-links quite near to us.”

  “You’ll take me round while Stephen mugs over his book,” he said.

  “Oh, I can hardly play at all! I’m awfully stupid at games, Charles.”

  “Rot! I bet you can play well enough really. You’re so frightfully modest, that’s all.”

  Aunt Anne met Wendell one afternoon when she came unexpectedly to see her niece. Wendell was with Elizabeth, having tea; Stephen had gone out to interview his typist.

  Miss Arden was rather surprised to find a strange man with Elizabeth, surprised and rather disapproving.

  “Oh, Auntie dear, how lovely to see you! This is Mr. Wendell. Charles, this is my aunt, Miss Arden.”

  Wendell did not stay very long, and as soon as he had gone, Miss Arden asked,

  “My dear, who is that young man?”

  “A friend of Stephen, Auntie. I like him very much; he’s so energetic and cheery.”

  “Does Stephen know that you entertain him in his absence?”

  Elizabeth stiffened, inwardly furious at her aunt’s interference.

  “Of course Stephen knows. I’m—I’m not a child, Auntie.”

  “Oh, if Stephen knows—!” Miss Arden said, trying to feel relieved. But she mentioned the occurrence to Lawrence that night, and said that she hoped that it was all right.

  Lawrence pooh-poohed her misgivings. It was only natural that his little girl should have men-friends. Why, her marriage itself enabled her to do so!

  “Yes, but—I’ve wondered—sometimes—whether everything is—quite as it should be—between Stephen and Elizabeth.”

  “Nonsense, my dear Anne, nonsense! I never saw a more devoted couple! All your imagination! And if it weren’t, I for one know Elizabeth too well to suspect her of carrying on an intrigue with another man!”

  “Lawrence! How can yon? I never dreamed of such a thing! Only—sometimes—a friendship like that—isn’t very wise.”

  “No one nowadays thinks anything of a platonic friendship,” Lawrence said loftily. “It’s perfectly usual and natural.”

  Miss Arden rose to leave the room. But before she went she delivered a Parthian shot.

  “I don’t believe there’s any such thing as platonic friendship,” she said flatly.

  She was not alone in her belief, or her disapproval. Cynthia had seen Wendell. On many occasions she had been included in the parties of which he was a member, and she realised that Elizabeth liked him more than she knew. Having come to the conclusion that Elizabeth neither loved nor understood Stephen, Cynthia thought her friendship with a man of Wendell’s calibre dangerous. Inwardly she raged, for she felt herself to be impotent. Elizabeth did not like her; therefore she would not be advised by her. It was equally impossible to drop a word of warning in Stephen’s ear. That, she knew, would be disastrous, almost criminal. Philosophically she thought, If Stephen chooses to be a blind fool, he must take the consequences. To Anthony, however, she spoke her mind, characteristically.

  “I do not like the Tertium Quid,” she drawled, over Christopher’s curly head.

  Anthony looked up.

  “What?”

  “Kipling,” said Cynthia.

  “Yes, I know. Who?”

  “The treacle-eyed Wendell.”

  Anthony was interested, and put down his book.

  “Really? But why Tertium Quid?”

  Cynthia addressed her son.

  “My cherub, will you be stupid, like your father, when you grow up? I love stupid men.”

  Christopher grinned cheerfully, and said Dad-dad-dad.

  “I don’t see it, Cynny,” Anthony said.

  “I know you don’t, but it’s none the less obvious. The treacle-eyed one has found the soft spot in Elizabeth’s heart.”

  “D’you honestly think that, Cynny? He doesn’t shine much beside Stephen.”

  “No matter. He admires, he adulates. What more does Elizabeth want?”

  “That’s unfair, Cynthia. Beastly unfair.”

  “My dear, I shall begin to be jealous of Elizabeth soon.”

  He smiled.

  “I like her, Cyn. Probably because I’m stupid. I think she’s a thoroughly nice little thing. You know, Stephen’s at all joy, if you have to live with him.”

  “No. He wanted a very different wife.”

  “I’m not so sure. I know you and Mater had set your hearts on Nina, but I always thought you were wrong.”

  “Nina, or someone like her. Someone who had the same interests as Stephen. Someone brainy.”

  Anthony began to knock his pipe out.

  “Funny how you clever women go off the rails,” he remarked. “Take a simple example. Ourselves. I don’t know a darn thing about verse; I can’t grasp mysticism, and I loathe William Morris. What about it?”

  Cynthia threw up her hand.

  “Yes. Touché. Perhaps we’re exceptional.”

  “Not likely. If Stephen had married Nina they’d have quarrelled from morn till night. Each one striving to go one better than the other.”

  Cynthia rested her cheek against Christopher’s little round head.

  “You may be right. You often are. But I can’t believe that Stephen’s marriage is a success.”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be—eventually,” said Anthony.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The visit to town lasted until the New Year. Stephen had wished to go back to Queen’s Halt at the end of November, but when he saw how much Elizabeth was enjoying this time in London, of his own free will he suggested that they should lengthen their stay. They spent Christmas with the Ardens, and Stephen bore it well, on the whole. When it was over he said that another time he thought that they would either go abroad, or invite friends to the Halt. That was what he felt about Christmas with the Ardens.

  Stephen began to grow tired of Wendell.

  “That chap’s always hanging round us,” he said
one day.

  Elizabeth looked up quickly.

  “Don’t you like him, Stephen?”

  “Fairly. I get a bit bored with him. Don’t you? Rather vapid, but quite a cheery sort of blighter.”

  “I’m rather sorry for him,” Elizabeth said. “He doesn’t seem to have any people, or anywhere much to go to.”

  “Seems to have this place,” he remarked humorously. “I’m always falling over him.”

  “Well, shall we not ask him to come so often?” she said. “If he bores you—”

  “Oh no, darling! It’s not as bad as that. If he amuses you, and you like him, why should we choke him off?”

  “He does amuse me,” she said. “I think he’s good fun.”

  “All right, then. Long live Charles Wendell. I suppose we ought to ask him to join our theatre party next week. We owe him an invitation. Don’t we?”

  “Do we? Oh yes! The party he got up at Claridges. That was awfully jolly, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I didn’t care much for the stray girl who came with the Parchetts, but otherwise it was a good show. Ring him up and ask him for next week. Or I will, if you like.”

  “I’d rather you did,” she said.

  The theatre-party dined first at the Berkeley. The Ruthvens were present, and Sarah, and Cynthia was rather short with Wendell. Anthony, however, was as pleasant as ever. He sat on one side of Elizabeth, Wendell on the other. Elizabeth thought that Anthony was a darling. She could not understand why he had married Cynthia. Elizabeth and the two men talked airily of nothing; Stephen and Sarah and Cynthia discussed Galsworthy and Conrad. Occasionally conversation became general, but the party split most naturally into two.

  At the theatre Wendell sat next to Elizabeth, and whispered to her,

  “Stephen’s sister—jolly clever an’ all that, but a bit alarming, what?”

  She agreed whole-heartedly, but disloyalty was not one of her failings.

  “She wants knowing,” was all she said.

  “Oh, quite, quite!” he answered hurriedly.

  After the theatre they went back to the Ramsays’ hotel for supper, and Wendell asked Cynthia if she did not think the play jolly good. Cynthia said, Spasmodically.