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  “Who sat next to him last night?” wondered Hugo. “Philomena! Hell! At least I won’t start thinking about Philomena.”

  For he was growing very angry with Philomena. He was angry with all of them. They had all conspired to make a fool of him. But Philomena had done worse. She had led him on to make a fool of himself. She had got him into a false position, taking advantage of a moment’s folly, and now he had a suspicion that he was going to be set free in a way that was even more humiliating. To get out of it adroitly was one thing: to be dropped was another.

  Perhaps Alec had been expressly told off to entertain a failure. But a country walk was poor entertainment. Over a great many stiles they went and conversation languished. Courting couples, embracing in the lanes, made way for them respectfully. Courting couples lay prone upon the downs. In some cases they lay right across the path so that Alec and Hugo had to walk round them. Hugo, accustomed only to the more urban forms of licence, was embarrassed. He could not achieve the imperturbable serenity of his companion, who strode on and looked the other way. Occasionally they stopped to peer at small, uninteresting flowers and wonder what they were called, and at one time Alec grew very angry over a new red bungalow which had been built just on the edge of the Syranwood property. Geraldine, he said, had tried to prevent it, but a speculating builder from Basingstoke had been too many for her.

  “It’s positively indecent,” he complained. “It ought never to have been allowed.”

  “I should think so,” agreed Hugo, trying not to look at two people on the grass ten yards ahead of them.

  “It’s the thin edge of the wedge,” said Alec. “We’ve kept the place from being vulgarised up till now, but in another ten years it’ll be quite spoilt.”

  When they got to the top of Chawton Beacon he pointed out the walk which they were going to take, a pleasant circuit of seven miles or so, which they could easily do before dinner. Hugo, who had thought the walk already too long, broke into a cold sweat. He murmured something about having some writing to do, whereat Alec relented so far as to point out a shorter route whereby they could save three miles. To its modified horrors they committed themselves. As might have been expected, a blister had already begun to form on Hugo’s heel. And a deadly fatigue settled upon all his limbs, the frozen impotence of a nightmare, so that he had absolutely to force one foot in front of the other while he listened to Alec’s dry savourless voice.

  They spoke of the drama, because Alec was always careful to talk to people upon their own subjects. He used, he said, to like going to the theatre, but now he could never hear what they were saying. It was not that he was deaf, but that modern enunciation was so bad. But he still made an effort, in spite of his work, to keep up with all that was going on. He could make a few dim little comments about each of the well-known dramatists. Concerning the elder generation he had already made up his mind. Palemon White was very clever, oh, very clever indeed, but not an Englishman of course. Alan Chrome was clever too, but there was something ill-natured about the fella, Alec thought; he left a nasty taste in your mouth. And as for Edgerton, well, Alec knew Edgerton. They had a place nearby, over at Brassing, and he liked the fella. They had been contemporaries at Cambridge and nobody would then have suspected such a thing. But he did not like Edgerton’s plays. He thought them subversive. They were too serious, that was the point. Clever Mr. Palemon White could be dismissed with indulgent laughter because he was not, after all, an Englishman. Not so Edgerton. The fella was always raising points which he did not himself seem able to answer. Those were not the sort of points which ought to be raised in a play. A serious play might possibly teach a lesson, but it ought not to make the public feel uncomfortable. There was no such thing as ideal justice in this world and Edgerton was an educated man who ought to know it. But he seemed to be always demanding it, and that was the sort of thing that might make ignorant people discontented. Not that Edgerton was biased exactly. That was another thing. You could never tell which side he was on, so that you could not even be sure if you disagreed with him. Still, he liked the man. Had always liked him.

  But it was the younger generation that he wanted to discuss with Hugo. Which of them would live? Which had a message?

  Hugo, as they forged up the next hill, panted out the names of his three most prominent rivals, adding that formula of praise which he could, by now, have repeated in his sleep. But Alec wanted to hear more than that. He wanted to get the young dramatist’s point of view, and he asked tactlessly whether any of them were really any good. Would they live? Hugo wanted to say that they were all quite healthy as far as he knew, but he restrained himself. His head was empty of ideas and his heel hurt him abominably. He said that one of the three would live, he thought. Well, which? asked Alec. Cecil Hopkins, said Hugo, believing that he spoke at random, but guided unconsciously by a determination not to be jealous. But why Cecil Hopkins? Because he was so very clever. But they were all clever. And vitality was apt to be overrated, nowadays. After all it was merely raw material. And had Hopkins anything in particular to say? That was what he wanted to know. They limped up hill and down dale, and Hugo felt that the conversation was becoming more and more imbecile.

  Before the end of the walk they had both given it up. Hugo could think of nothing but his heel, and Alec had gone back to the problem of a cargo of china teapots, shipped from Bristol to Honolulu. They had arrived in pieces and it was his own opinion that this was due to a monsoon, but it was his business to convince a judge that there might be reasonable grounds for saying that it was not so. Since Hugo did not want to talk he might as well go on thinking about that. But it was a pity, because he really did desire to keep up his interest in the arts and nobody would help him. Hugo was not the first person who had fallen into a kind of blank stupor when out on a walk with Alec.

  The afternoon was sultry and they had to go out of their way in order to avoid a field with a bull in it. When they got home it was after seven o’clock, and they found the hall full of people who all seemed to have come to the end of their resources. They were just sitting about, too much exhausted to go up and dress for dinner. Aggie’s departure had left them all at a loose end, and their several preoccupations were far from pleasant. Laura had lost her lover, Adrian had got to go to East Prussia, Philomena had decided that she would never be able to “manage,” and Gibbie was making up his mind that the Good Man takes a firm line. But Hugo thought that they were all displeased with him. He had grown so nervous that he could not consider them as individuals any longer. They were just a public which had turned against him.

  Sitting down beside Corny he rallied sufficient spirit to make a very small joke. Corny laughed abruptly. In that quarter abruptness was a well-known danger signal, for Corny had never been known to desert a friend in trouble. His friendships generally dissolved urbanely before trouble of any sort set in. After the laugh there was a long silence as though everyone was waiting for a lead. Now, if ever, might Hugo have seized the opportunity to reinstate himself. He should have rushed in and held them all spellbound. He said nothing.

  Failure, as he now saw, is like success in that it is cumulative. It generates its own fuel. Because a man is out of humour he has to go for a walk with a first-class devitaliser like Alec, is reduced to a mass of thirst and blisters, and automatically becomes incapable of recovery. Failure is a quicksand, an octopus, anything that drags you down if you struggle. All these people, so ready yesterday to applaud his good fortune, were quite indifferent to-day at the sight of his collapse. They would sit round and coolly watch him sink. Not one of them cared to give him a helping hand, not even Philomena, who ought, at least, to have laughed when he made jokes. He looked across at her, almost appealingly, but she stared back as solemn as an owl. And this final proof of his falling credit left him quite hopeless.

  When, at last, he went upstairs to dress he could think of nothing save Philomena’s inconstancy. He promised himself a rich scene with her later on. She should be forced to ex
plain herself. He would have it in plain English. If she had dropped him because he was not being a success, then it must have been the purest snobbery which had flung her into his arms twenty-four hours ago, and he would make her say so. The whole business had been ugly and insincere. He did not want her. He had only made love to her because he was bored and she seemed to expect it. She ought to be ashamed of herself, and he would tell her so.

  Seething with indignation he tied his tie and saw in the glass that romantic young face which had been his fortune and his undoing. Ill temper could change but not spoil it. He snarled:

  “At least you can still make Joey giggle.”

  And flung out of the room.

  23. Hugo’s Heavenly Crown.

  At dinner he found himself placed between Marianne and Mrs. Comstock, the rector’s wife. Of course this was not accidental. It was another milestone on the road to ruin. He had only to compare it with his position last night, between Aggie and his hostess, to know how far he had sunk. And his anger stiffened into a black sulkiness which kept him as silent as either of his neighbours. Nothing should make him speak until they did, and if they began he would give them a bad time. He ate up his soup and his fish and looked straight in front of him.

  After twenty minutes his silence had become conspicuous. Lady Geraldine threw him one or two disturbed glances, and he was aware that Laura had said something about him to Adrian. He was being inexcusable and they all knew it. He was dramatising his own failure. As, in prosperity, he had been swift to impersonate a darling of the gods, so now, in adversity, he gave them a very good imitation of a pariah. But never again would it be said that he put on no airs. His dissatisfaction with his neighbours was far too obvious. Yet, a fortnight ago, when he was still in his glory, this accident would have fallen to his greater credit. He would have been quite as charming to Mrs. Comstock as he had been to Aggie. And in the midst of his spontaneous good fellowship he would have been thinking:

  “This isn’t insincere. I’m not doing this to make an impression. I’m nice to them because I like them.”

  Now he did not like anybody, so it would be insincere to hide it. Marianne wanted to speak to him. He felt that she was trying to catch his eye. But he was not going to help. He was a celebrity and celebrities are sometimes difficult to entertain. They are fools if they do not, occasionally, claim some licence. All this pose of being simple and unspoilt—he had overdone it. He had cheapened himself by being too pleasant. If he had been rude, now and then, perhaps they might think more of him. Common sense told him that a waning star cannot afford a sudden change of policy, but he was past listening to common sense. He kept his eyes on his plate until he heard her voice, speaking low and clear under cover of a burst of laughter all round them.

  “The lady on your right is very deaf. She never talks to people because she’s afraid of being a nuisance. But she loves it if they talk to her.”

  “Oh?” said Hugo.

  He had not expected this and he was taken aback. As soon as he could do so naturally he looked at Mrs. Comstock and saw what he ought to have seen long ago. It was a plain, elderly face, but the look of endurance upon it gave it a kind of grim beauty. She had just leant forward in the hopes of catching some joke that was passing at the other side of the table. Such as it was, she missed it. And he saw her sit back again, disappointed, into the solitude of her deafness. There was a terrible patience about the gesture. Every day, every hour of her life, she must resign herself to missing things. A twinge of sick compassion shook him. Perhaps she liked people.

  “I see,” he said, turning to Marianne. “Thank you. I didn’t know. Er … what shall I talk to her about?”

  “Flowers.”

  “Flowers? Just my luck!”

  Flowers were not his strong point. He knew a rose from a delphinium of course. But Mrs. Comstock looked as though she might be the sort of person who knows wild carrot from cow parsley. And after so long a silence he could think of no opening remark about flowers which would not sound silly, especially if he had to shout it. Already he was paying for his bad manners. A nervous lull seemed to have fallen upon the table. Everybody began to converse in undertones. He waited for two minutes and then braced himself. Valiantly crashing into the unpropitious quiet he asked Mrs. Comstock if the soil of Ullmer was good for roses—the soil, the soil of Ullmer was good for roses, Roses, ROSES. She said that it was on the whole, and waited, in pleased surprise, for more.

  “I suppose you’re a great gardener?” bellowed Hugo.

  He must forget that he was making himself ridiculous. Of course this sudden interest in horticulture after half an hour’s huff would do nothing to restore his lost credit. He was not trying to restore his lost credit. If Corny had really tittered at the other end of the table, so much the worse for Corny. He would concentrate upon his heavenly crown, and permit his own good nature to put him, for the first time in his life, at a disadvantage. Mrs. Comstock should be persuaded that her conversation was a pleasure: she should go away feeling, not that he had been kind, but that she had been interesting. So he persisted until dessert was put upon the table. And by that time he had made so complete an exhibition of himself that nothing worse could ever happen to him. There was almost a touch of æsthetic beauty in this rounding off of his disasters. It was so complete. The very completeness of it, together with the champagne he had drunk, made him feel rather better. He turned to Marianne almost cheerfully and perceived for the first time, that she had very beautiful eyes. They were fitting the heavenly crown on to his head as neatly as if it had been made to measure. She had the air of being in his debt. Perhaps the moment for coping with her had come. For he had been wanting to cope with her ever since his arrival and had never secured the opportunity. He took a sip of port and said jovially:

  “Well, Mary … Ann …?”

  “Have a gooseberry?”

  “Thank you. I wanted to ask after that girl who used to live here. A mere child. But she used to be so nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “Oh, a darling. A pearl. What’s happened to her?”

  Marianne opened her eyes very wide and frowned a little.

  “You know,” she said, “I’m not very good at … at badinage. Is that a word?”

  “Yes. I believe it’s a word. Though I never dare use it myself because my accent’s so good. Tell me about the other Marianne.”

  “Have another gooseberry.”

  “Thanks. I’m only trying to say that I feel we’re strangers, but I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, you are bad at it!”

  “I told you I was.”

  “What are you good at?”

  “Swimming.”

  “So was the other Marianne.”

  “And so was the other Hugo.”

  “Ah! That’s just what I was coming to. There isn’t another Hugo. You’ve been misled.”

  Marianne said nothing, and he was obliged to continue.

  “Why do you disapprove of me, Marianne? You do, don’t you? Except when I’m talking about the ivy-leafed campanula at the top of my voice. Oh, I know you’re plying me with gooseberries now, but that’s merely a reward for elocution. You don’t really approve of me. Do you?”

  “That is a thing,” said Marianne gravely, “which we have to guess for ourselves. Whether other people approve of us or not, I mean. It isn’t fair to ask, though one would often like to.”

  “I am answered, Mademoiselle.”

  He was deeply offended. The other slights which he had suffered were as nothing to this rebuff. Because he had really come to hope that Marianne’s good opinion was independent of the general judgment. After all, she had liked him when her mother mistook him for a Rhodes Scholar. It was a bitter blow to discover that Aggie’s writ ran here as everywhere else. Flushing resentfully he turned away from her and bit into a gooseberry, but even there he was betrayed, for the ripe fruit exploded and sprayed the table with little pips. In spite of him
self he could not help glancing at her to see if she was laughing, and found that her face was as crimson as his own. She was not laughing. She was nearly crying.

  “Marianne,” he exclaimed desperately. “What has happened to us? I think you might try to explain it. We used to be such friends.”

  “I was very young then,” said Marianne.

  “And now that you’re so frightfully mature you’ve crossed my name off. But why?”

  She murmured something lamely about people in different generations never quite understanding one another. But this could not placate him.

  “Different generations? What are you talking about? I’m not so awfully, awfully much older than you are, you know.”

  “Not in years. But your mind is a lot older, Hugo. And all your friends are older.”

  “My friends?” He paused and said quickly: “I doubt if I have any.”

  Marianne did not contradict this, but she amended:

  “Well, the people you go about with. And the people you write plays for. I mean, you go in for rather old-fashioned kinds of plays, don’t you?”

  Hugo, the White Hope of the Moderns, nearly spilt his port.

  “You’re the first person who’s ever suggested that,” he said.

  “Oh, I know they’re frightfully good,” cried Marianne. “And they don’t sound old-fashioned. I meant more the point of view … the ideas … the sentiment … I should have thought it was the sort of thing that appeals to middle-aged people.”

  “Would you? How? Give me an instance. Are you repeating something you’ve heard Aggie say?”

  “Aggie? No, of course not. She likes that sort of thing.”

  “Did she like that play I was reading to her this morning?”