3
Mr. Carmyle was not a man who readily allowed himself to be disturbed by
life's little surprises, but at the present moment he could not help
feeling slightly dazed. He recognized Sally now as the French girl who
had attracted his cousin Lancelot's notice on the beach. At least he had
assumed that she was French, and it was startling to be addressed by her
now in fluent English. How had she suddenly acquired this gift of
tongues? And how on earth had she had time since yesterday, when he had
been a total stranger to her, to become sufficiently intimate with
Cousin Lancelot to be sprinting with him down station platforms and
addressing him out of railway-carriage windows as Ginger? Bruce Carmyle
was aware that most members of that sub-species of humanity, his
cousin's personal friends, called him by that familiar--and, so Carmyle
held, vulgar--nickname: but how had this girl got hold of it?
If Sally had been less pretty, Mr. Carmyle would undoubtedly have
looked disapprovingly at her, for she had given his rather rigid sense
of the proprieties a nasty jar. But as, panting and flushed from her
run, she was prettier than any girl he had yet met, he contrived to
smile.
"Not at all," he said in answer to her question, though it was far from
the truth. His left big toe was aching confoundedly. Even a girl with a
foot as small as Sally's can make her presence felt on a man's toe if
the scrum-half who is handling her aims well and uses plenty of vigour.
"If you don't mind," said Sally, sitting down, "I think I'll breathe a
little."
She breathed. The train sped on.
"Quite a close thing," said Bruce Carmyle, affably. The pain in his toe
was diminishing. "You nearly missed it."
"Yes. It was lucky Mr. Kemp was with me. He throws very straight,
doesn't he."
"Tell me," said Carmyle, "how do you come to know my Cousin? On the
beach yesterday morning..."
"Oh, we didn't know each other then. But we were staying at the same
hotel, and we spent an hour or so shut up in an elevator together. That
was when we really got acquainted."
A waiter entered the compartment, announcing in unexpected English that
dinner was served in the restaurant car. "Would you care for dinner?"
"I'm starving," said Sally.
She reproved herself, as they made their way down the corridor, for
being so foolish as to judge anyone by his appearance. This man was
perfectly pleasant in spite of his grim exterior. She had decided by the
time they had seated themselves at the table she liked him.
At the table, however, Mr. Carmyle's manner changed for the worse. He
lost his amiability. He was evidently a man who took his meals seriously
and believed in treating waiters with severity. He shuddered austerely
at a stain on the table-cloth, and then concentrated himself frowningly
on the bill of fare. Sally, meanwhile, was establishing cosy relations
with the much too friendly waiter, a cheerful old man who from the start
seemed to have made up his mind to regard her as a favourite daughter.
The waiter talked no English and Sally no French, but they were getting
along capitally, when Mr. Carmyle, who had been irritably waving aside
the servitor's light-hearted advice--at the Hotel Splendide the waiters
never bent over you and breathed cordial suggestions down the side of
your face--gave his order crisply in the Anglo-Gallic dialect of the
travelling Briton. The waiter remarked, "Boum!" in a pleased sort of
way, and vanished.
"Nice old man!" said Sally.
"Infernally familiar!" said Mr. Carmyle.
Sally perceived that on the topic of the waiter she and her host did not
see eye to eye and that little pleasure or profit could be derived from
any discussion centring about him. She changed the subject. She was not
liking Mr. Carmyle quite so much as she had done a few minutes ago, but
it was courteous of him to give her dinner, and she tried to like him as
much as she could.
"By the way," she said, "my name is Nicholas. I always think it's a
good thing to start with names, don't you?"
"Mine..."
"Oh, I know yours. Ginger--Mr. Kemp told me."
Mr. Carmyle, who since the waiter's departure, had been thawing,
stiffened again at the mention of Ginger.
"Indeed?" he said, coldly. "Apparently you got intimate."
Sally did not like his tone. He seemed to be criticizing her, and she
resented criticism from a stranger. Her eyes opened wide and she looked
dangerously across the table.
"Why 'apparently'? I told you that we had got intimate, and I explained
how. You can't stay shut up in an elevator half the night with anybody
without getting to know him. I found Mr. Kemp very pleasant."
"Really?"
"And very interesting."
Mr. Carmyle raised his eyebrows.
"Would you call him interesting?"
"I did call him interesting." Sally was beginning to feel the
exhilaration of battle. Men usually made themselves extremely agreeable
to her, and she reacted belligerently under the stiff unfriendliness
which had come over her companion in the last few minutes.
"He told me all about himself."
"And you found that interesting?"
"Why not?"
"Well..." A frigid half-smile came and went on Bruce Carmyle's dark
face. "My cousin has many excellent qualities, no doubt--he used to play
football well, and I understand that he is a capable amateur
pugilist--but I should not have supposed him entertaining. We find him a
little dull."
"I thought it was only royalty that called themselves 'we.'"
"I meant myself--and the rest of the family."
The mention of the family was too much for Sally. She had to stop
talking in order to allow her mind to clear itself of rude thoughts.
"Mr. Kemp was telling me about Mr. Scrymgeour," she went on at length.
Bruce Carmyle stared for a moment at the yard or so of French bread
which the waiter had placed on the table.
"Indeed?" he said. "He has an engaging lack of reticence."
The waiter returned bearing soup and dumped it down.
"V'la!" he observed, with the satisfied air of a man who has
successfully performed a difficult conjuring trick. He smiled at Sally
expectantly, as though confident of applause from this section of his
audience at least. But Sally's face was set and rigid. She had been
snubbed, and the sensation was as pleasant as it was novel.
"I think Mr. Kemp had hard luck," she said.
"If you will excuse me, I would prefer not to discuss the matter."
Mr. Carmyle's attitude was that Sally might be a pretty girl, but she
was a stranger, and the intimate affairs of the Family were not to be
discussed with strangers, however prepossessing.
"He was quite in the right. Mr. Scrymgeour was beating a dog..."
"I've heard the details."
"Oh, I didn't know that. Well, don't you agree with me, then?"
"I do not. A man who would throw away an excellent position simply
because..."
"Oh, well, if that's your view, I suppose it is useless to talk about
it."
"Quite."
"Still, there's no harm in asking what you propose to do about
Gin--about Mr. Kemp."
Mr. Carmyle became more glacial.
"I'm afraid I cannot discuss..."
Sally's quick impatience, nobly restrained till now, finally got the
better of her.
"Oh, for goodness' sake," she snapped, "do try to be human, and don't
always be snubbing people. You remind me of one of those portraits of
men in the eighteenth century, with wooden faces, who look out of heavy
gold frames at you with fishy eyes as if you were a regrettable
incident."
"Rosbif," said the waiter genially, manifesting himself suddenly beside
them as if he had popped up out of a trap.
Bruce Carmyle attacked his roast beef morosely. Sally who was in the
mood when she knew that she would be ashamed of herself later on, but
was full of battle at the moment, sat in silence.
"I am sorry," said Mr. Carmyle ponderously, "if my eyes are fishy. The
fact has not been called to my attention before."
"I suppose you never had any sisters," said Sally. "They would have
told you."
Mr. Carmyle relapsed into an offended dumbness, which lasted till the
waiter had brought the coffee.
"I think," said Sally, getting up, "I'll be going now. I don't seem to
want any coffee, and, if I stay on, I may say something rude. I thought
I might be able to put in a good word for Mr. Kemp and save him from
being massacred, but apparently it's no use. Good-bye, Mr. Carmyle, and
thank you for giving me dinner."
She made her way down the car, followed by Bruce Carmyle's indignant,
yet fascinated, gaze. Strange emotions were stirring in Mr. Carmyle's
bosom.
