“Kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary.”

It was James who was with her, and the inarticulate James was moved to reply,

“So do I. Rotten! I say, darling, you can’t cry here. Do hold up.”

“I’m not crying.”

They moved away.

Algy stood frowning behind the curtain. As bad as that, was it? He heard Sylvia say sweetly and wearily,

“Oh, Mr. Brewster-how kind! I would love a chair. I don’t think I like sitting on the floor very much. You see, I don’t want to spoil my dress.”

“It’s a very beautiful dress,” said the earnest voice of Cyril Brewster. “It is almost worthy, if I may say so, of its wearer.”

Algy controlled an inward spasm. What a fatuous ass Brewster was. No, not fatuous-that wasn’t the right word at all. Simple, earnest, Victorian, bromidic-these were all much better adjectives.

“That’s very nice of you,” said Sylvia with evident pleasure.

This was the moment for Algy to come out. He meant to.

He was going to. But the temptation to hear more of Cyril in a complimentary mood was too much for him. With his hand on the curtain he dallied, and was rewarded.

“There is a very beautiful line in the Idylls of the King,” pursued Mr. Brewster-“an extremely beautiful line in which someone-a man I think-expresses himself to the effect that he that loves beauty should go beautifully. I am almost sure that it was a man, and that the lady’s name was Enid, in which case it was from the poem entitled Enid and Geraint. I cannot be entirely certain that my memory is accurate, as it is a good many years since I opened my Tennyson.”

“I have a dreadful memory too,” said Sylvia comfortably.

Algy blessed her, and would have given a good deal to see Cyril’s face. He ought to come out though, he ought to come out.

His hand went to the curtain and stayed there, because Sylvia was saying,

“Is there something wrong about Mr. Somers? I thought he was so nice.”

On any other night of any other month Algy would have taken that cue, bowed with hand on heart, and most convincingly have guaranteed his niceness. But not tonight, not with this damnable thing hanging over him. He stayed where he was, and heard Brewster, politely embarrassed.

“Oh, there’s nothing, Lady Colesborough-nothing at all. I really don’t know who could have given you such an impression.”

“Linda,” said Sylvia-“Mrs. Westgate, you know. I said how much I liked him and I thought I’d ask him to go to the Kensingtons’ dance next week, and she said better not, and Francis wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t say why-and I did like him so much.”

“Oh, but I assure you-”

Algy began to edge away towards the second window. He lost Cyril’s embarrassed defence, but he managed to emerge from behind the end curtain without being noticed.

Sylvia sat lightly on one of the chromium-plated chairs in her golden dress. Mr. Brewster occupied a jade-green cushion at her feet. Neither the colour nor the attitude became him. Darts were flying, a thought dangerously. There was a constant babel and babble of voices.

Algy found James Craster.

“Here,” he said, “I want to know how serious is this damned story-for me, I mean?”

James was large, and fair, and taciturn. He took thought, and produced reluctant words.

“Damned serious, I’m afraid.”

“People are believing it?”

“Not Mary and me.”

“Thanks. Other people though?”

James took thought again, again found words-more words than usual.

“Perhaps not today. All saying can’t believe such a thing.”

“Depends how that’s said.” Algy’s tone was grim.

James nodded, and saved a word.

“Tomorrow they’ll be spreading it. Saying ‘Suppose he did.’ Next day it’ll be, ‘Well, I always thought.’ That’s how it goes. Unless it’s stopped. Better stop it quick. Get Lushington to stop it. That’s my advice. Lies breed like flies.”

Algy was rather grey. James hit hard. Once you got him going he’d say what he thought. No beating about the bush. No tact. A good friend.

He passed on, talked to Mary for a little, and found her gentle commonplaces a balm. She never said anything that you could label as wise or witty. She looked with her friendly eyes, and her voice was like running water, clear, and cool, and sweet. Algy esteemed James a lucky fellow.

When he saw Mr. Brewster rise not very gracefully from his cushion at Sylvia’s feet, he crossed over, sped Cyril on his way and annexed the vacant place. Sylvia, vaguely embarrassed, seemed about to be gone. Algy smiled at her.

“Do stay and talk to me, Lady Colesborough. Has he been warning you against me? Do tell me.”

Sylvia responded with a smile, a little nervously, and said,

“Oh, no.”

“I’m not really dangerous, you know, and we got on beautifully the other night, didn’t we? Now let’s talk about the country. Why do you hate it?”

“We were so poor,” said Sylvia with simplicity.

Algy liked her for that. He pursued his ordered way. A very good reason.

“But do you hate it when you’re not poor? You were at Wellings last week, weren’t you? Do you hate a place like that? It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Sylvia doubtfully. “In summer it might be. I like lights in the streets, and plenty of shops, and people.”

Algy laughed. She looked like the sun and the moon and the stars, but she didn’t like those things. She liked people and shops. He said,

“I expect there were plenty of people at Wellings, weren’t there?”

“Well, it wasn’t a big party.”

“Who did you have?”

“Well, Poppy and Buffo-but of course it’s their house. You know them, don’t you?”

“Just a little.”

“She has the most divine clothes.” Sylvia’s eyes waked into starry beauty. “She designs them herself, you know, and I can’t think how she does it. I do think clever people are marvellous-don’t you?”

“They’re a menace,” said Algy. “I always avoid them. Who else did you have?”

“Well, his brother-Buffo’s brother Binks-and his wife, Constance. She isn’t a bit like Poppy.”

“And you and your husband?”

“Yes, but Francis was late for dinner because he couldn’t get away-business is so tiresome that way-so I had to go down alone.”

“The Lushingtons were there, weren’t they?”

Sylvia nodded.

“They had just arrived when I got there, but we had to go off and dress for dinner almost at once.”

She was quite pleased to prattle. With a very little trouble Algy discovered the geography of the house and the whereabouts of the guests. There was an east wing and a west wing. Buffo and Poppy were in the west wing, and so were Binks and Constance. The Lushingtons had the big suite at the end of the east wing, and the Colesboroughs were next to them-“And we each had a room and a bathroom. You know, it’s dreadful how few bathrooms we’ve got at Cole Lester-only three besides our own two, and I can’t get Francis to see that it isn’t enough.”

They talked earnestly about bathrooms, and presently Algy got her back to Wellings again. It was possible to get her back, but not possible to keep her there. She broke away in the middle of a sentence and said,

“You’re a friend of Gay’s, aren’t you?”

Algy said, “Yes,” and wondered if it was true. He was Gay’s friend last night, but last night was a long time ago. They stood together in the dark with anger flashing between them-hot anger-hot, dangerous anger. And someone had put Monty’s envelope in his pocket, and Monty was being pressed to look no farther than his own household for the thief. Last night was a long way off. He wondered whether he was Gay’s friend today, and he said,

“Oh, yes.”

Sylvia went on babbling about Gay.