The Balliols (30 page)

The story was told effectively, with an actuality that is only possessed by the things of the imagination. For it had not happened in this way at all. The industrialist had taken a sip at his glass, had held the wine in his mouth, had taken a second sip quickly, then a third and longer one. “Young man,” he had said, “that's a pretty smooth-tasting wine. If I could be certain that every glass would taste as smooth, I'd place an order for a pipe of it. But I've a fancy that it won't however. Here, hand me a tumbler, and send that decanter round.”

He had filled the tumbler three quarters full, and in the space of a minute and a half, during which no one else at the table spoke, he consumed with long slow sips its entire contents. Then he had made a wry face and pushed the decanter over to his left. “Too sweet
Leaves a bad taste in the mouth after the second glass. Sorry, young fellow. But you'll have to do better than that, if you want to get Jock Martin on your books.”

It had been for Hugh a humiliating moment. Afterwards he had relived the scene in his imagination, re-enacting it as he would have had things happen; in terms of his own triumph. “That's how it should have been,” he had thought. The revised version made an effective story.

Tavenham was definitely impressed by it. Before the story was half-way through, he was sitting upright in his chair.

“That's good, that's fine, and the sequel? What happened afterwards? You sent him the two bottles?…”

“Of course I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“He agreed with me. He thanked me very much for having saved him from a big mistake.”

“Now I suppose he'll have such faith in your judgment that he'll buy all his wine from you?”

Hugh chuckled.

“I can't say I've lost by turning down that order for a pipe.”

On Tavenham's face there was such a look of admiration as the respectable reserve for outlawed exploits. Themselves, they prefer to live within the law, but they respect those others from a different sphere who run wild hazards.

“You're certainly smart.”

“And the best thing about it all is this,” concluded Hugh; “there really wasn't anything wrong with the port at all. I just told him that there was, to get my own back on him for trying to make me look small before my friends.”

The look of admiration on Tavenham's face grew brighter.

“I must say I envy you the chance of being able to pull a bluff like that,” he said. “Let's go down and have a hand of bridge. Let's see how you put a finesse across.”

Hugh played a good deal of bridge. Stakes at his club were high, a pound a hundred. But he was a careful and skilful player. He expected the month to show a profit of fifteen to twenty pounds. Tavenham on the other hand was a careless and reckless player, who seemed to give less than half his attention to the cards, but every now and again would become electrified into interest and play a succession of hands with brilliant, controlled
daring. It was when the luck was running against him that he played best.

There were four tables occupied in the card-room. A rubber was just ending. They cut in and found that they were partners. “This means an expensive rubber for me,” thought Hugh. He did not mind losing money at the table, but it bored him to see tricks flung away.

As Tavenham picked up his first hand, a tense look came into his eyes. The first time that Hugh had seen it he had thought, “That look's a grand slam.” He knew better now. Probably it meant a Yarborough. Tavenham was that rare type of player who managed a losing far better than a winning hand; who lost interest when he picked up a hand bristling with picture cards and aces. Life, Hugh supposed, had come to him so easily, that what he chiefly relished in games was the contrast of opposition. Hugh welcomed that eager look. It meant that Tavenham was going to try.

And indeed against a succession of appalling hands he put up such a magnificent rearguard action that at the end of the rubber, by which time the luck had begun to change, they were only two hundred down. But when in the following rubber the cards began to fall really well, he played so casually that Hugh was driven to the desperate device of calling him out of his first and proper bids so as to play the hands himself. At the end they were three hundred up. Tavenham pocketed his sovereigns as a waiter picks up a shilling tip as though he were not noticing its presence.

“Interesting hands,” he said, as he and Hugh left the card-room. “Quite interesting hands. I've lost pretty heavily this week. Could you lend me twenty pounds till the end of the month?”

“I haven't so much on me.”

“A cheque will do.”

“All right.”

“Thanks. That's nice of you.”

The money was borrowed as casually as a postage stamp, and with as much likelihood of its return. Tavenham was as liberal a borrower as, when he was in funds, which was frequent, he was a liberal lender. Neither as borrower nor as lender did he let his behaviour show that any such transaction had taken place. He had the indifference for money that is the privileged attribute of those who have had plenty of it without ever having earned it. He actually did forget who had lent him money and to whom he'd lent it.
He owed far less than he was owed and he was scrupulously careful not to borrow money from people who could not afford to lend it.

A fact of which Hugh was very well aware.

“And by the way, I'm throwing a party to-morrow evening,” said Tavenham. “A kind of studio dance affair. It might amuse you.” He gave him the address. “Any time after ten. But bring a girl.” He proffered the invitation as casually as he had pocketed his winnings and his loan.

“I suppose he looks on this party as interest for the loan,” thought Hugh. But it wasn't that; and Hugh knew it wasn't. Tavenham was just casual. If a man was good enough to borrow money from, he was good enough to ask to a party. He would not have asked Hugh to the party unless he had happened to meet him in the club, but then he equally would not have gone out of his way to ask him for a loan. He was one of those casual people who took things as they came.

It must be nice to be like that, thought Hugh, as he walked out into the sunlit length of Piccadilly. Nice not to worry about what people thought of you; to be self-assured; to have poise. If I hadn't told him that absurd story about the port, he'd never have borrowed that twenty pounds. I let him think that I was full of money, which I'm not; not full enough anyhow to make presents of twenty pounds. I don't suppose I'll ever see it again. If he'd known what my bank balance looked like, he'd never have asked me. But I couldn't refuse; not after boasting in the way I did. One has to see one's bluffs through. Heaven knows why I should want to boast. I don't with other people. There wasn't a word of truth in that damned silly story. It was an expensive lie, all right. Still, there
is
the party.

It should be a good party. Tavenham's parties had a reputation. Hugh wondered what kind of people would be there. There were bound to be some amusing people: actresses very likely; some of those modern girls one read about. Tavenham had told him to take a girl. It would be more amusing if he did. He might not know many people there. He didn't suppose there'd be much introducing. You'd be left to look after yourself. He might be lonely, if he went alone. At the same time, the worst of taking a girl to that kind of show was that you might meet somebody really thrilling, and if you had a girl with you there was nothing that you could do about it. You couldn't take a girl to a party and then neglect her. That was one of the advantages of a sister. You had all the fun of taking a
pretty girl about, and if something really exciting came along, you could park her somewhere. There wouldn't be jealousies or scenes, or feeling hurt. As likely as not she'd have found someone for herself. It might not be a bad thing to take Ruth along. On the contrary, it might be an extremely good one. She was old enough now to know what was what.

Victor Tavenham surveyed his party with disfavour. It looked as though it were a successful party. The studio that a friend had lent him was three-quarters full, which meant that there was room to move about, to see who was there. Yet a sufficient crowd for one to be able to edge away, unobtrusively from the conversation that proved tiresome. People seemed to be enjoying themselves. The conversation was animated. There was a good deal of noise. There was a certain amount of dancing. The man at the buffet bar was reasonably busy, there was still a hospitable display of food. On cushioned sofas curled couples were leaning towards each other in intimate, earnest discourse. It was after half-past twelve. The men and women looked young, well-dressed, gay. Three hours earlier the studio had seemed bare and chill with its high, blinded windows, its uncarpeted floor, its chairs and divans drawn back against the wall, and its sole splash of colour, the long, white-clothed, refectory table with its rows of glasses, its jugs of iced coffee, its high-piled plates of savoury sandwiches, stuffed eggs, a Brandenburg ham, a large bowl of lobster salad, its steaming silver-plated basket in which gold-foiled necked bottles were slowly cooling. The studio had looked like a garden in winter time. Now, with its bright, many-coloured dresses, it was like a herbaceous border in full summer radiance. Yes: it
was
a good party. The kind of party that people would talk about till he gave the next.

He could imagine the half-dozen or so bread-and-butter letters that he would receive two mornings later from those who wanted to make sure of being re-invited. “It was perfect,” they would say, “like all your parties.” That, precisely, was what the trouble was. It
was
like all his parties. The same guests, the same kind of hospitality. He did not know why he went on giving parties. He didn't enjoy it really. He couldn't afford it really. He was always overdrawn, always having to borrow money. Every guest meant a potential sponger.

Why did he give these parties? Because of a girl usually. He met someone new. He felt expansive; anxious not to so much impress her as to give her a good time. And then as likely as not, before the
time for giving the party came, he'd lost interest in the girl for whose sake in the first place he had given it. He certainly wouldn't care if he never saw Marigold again. She had been too easy. That was the trouble about women nowadays. They tumbled into your arms as soon as you showed an inclination to open them; or at least, the women he knew did. The minor actresses and the minor débutantes. Not in any particular spirit of adventure. The débutantes because they thought it was the smart thing; the actresses because they thought he might be useful. The Victorians must have had much more fun out of their long-laid siege to a maiden's virtue. There had been something to struggle for, something to overcome. It had been more than a mere manoeuvring; a playing of cards, which was all that gallantry was nowadays: a branch of athletics, neither more than that nor less. It was fun, of course; but it should be more than fun.

This is the last party I'll give till I fall genuinely in love, he vowed, and remembered how often he had vowed that before. It's time I remembered my duties as a host.

It was his view that a host should be in the background; that he should not stage-manage his effects; that he should leave people to amuse themselves, not run round introducing them to one another; only interposing himself when a person appeared to need assistance, had no one to talk to and wanted someone; or was being fatigued by an importunate conversationalist; or just now and again, when there were two particular people that he wanted to bring together. He cast a slow look round the room, wondering if there were anything that needed doing.

His glance rested on a girl that he did not remember having met before. She was fairly tall, she was graceful, with prettily rounded shoulders, and a slim ankle showing below her skirt; her hair was coiled low upon her neck, giving the sense of a bird's plumage. She was standing alone, beside one of the easels, watching the movement of the party with a bright, eager gaze, looking from one group to another quickly, as though she were trying to take it all in at once; anxious not to miss anything. Her eager interest, her youthfulness, and something about her clothes, he could not say what, but she seemed differently dressed from the other women, made him suspect that she was in this atmosphere for the first time. He walked across to her.

“I'm Victor Tavenham. I don't think we met when you arrived.”

She looked up with the same, quick interested expression with which she had been looking round the room. Her eyes were bright,
her complexion fresh, her lips were half-parted in a smile that was there not for any specific reason but just because she was enjoying herself.

“I'm Ruth Balliol.”

Tavenham was surprised. He had never thought of Balliol as the kind of fellow who would have a pretty sister. He had not indeed thought of him at all as a person who had a home, a father, sister, associations. Tavenham was incurious about the ways of life that lay outside the range of his immediate vision. He thought of people in the particular setting in which he chanced to meet them. He did not wonder how large or small a part of that person's life was circumscribed by that setting. Hugh Balliol for him was a man he met at the club and occasionally played cards with; whose father ran some wine business that paid his father substantial emoluments as a director. Some time ago there had been headlines about a suffragette jumping in front of some horses, who was some kind of relation, he had been told. But he had never thought of Balliol outside the card-room and the lounge annexe of the Clarion. To think that he should have such a pretty sister. He hesitated, anxious to make a pleasant impression with his first remark, wondering what he could best say to please her.

“Vivian would admire the way you've done your hair,” he said.

“Who's Vivian?”