25

“Well, now, Mr Pellerin?” said Mrs Shakeshaft, giving him a questioning look.

He realized that the moment to unfold his Tour of Europe plan had arrived.

He did unfold it, there and then, and as naturally as if he were proposing a tour of the picture galleries in London. “I thought of taking a boat to Lisbon, of leaping ashore and from that ancient and splendid city beginning our wandering . . .”

He broke off, savouring the happiness of the expression “leaping ashore”—yes, from the lanes of the Tagus in bright winter sunshine. Oh, what happy wanderers they would make, what a splendid effect it would have on the development of Herbert’s character, what fine poems he would write . . .

“I couldn’t agree to anything like that,” exclaimed Mrs Shakeshaft, interrupting the flow of Pellerin’s thoughts, tying them up in a bundle, so to speak, and tossing them away.

Well, that’s that, thought Pellerin, in dismay. He couldn’t argue with his employer.

There was a silence for a moment or two, and the only comforting thought he took from the disappointing situation was that Mrs Shakeshaft wanted him near her, in constant sight, because, in some mysterious way, he was necessary for her existence. (Or perhaps it was only that Herbert was necessary for her exist­ence, but that was hard to believe.)

He hadn’t yet told her the purpose of the proposed tour; in fact, he’d put the whole matter rather clumsily. Should he try again?

“If I may say so, Mr Pellerin, a trip abroad, as you suggest, would make a very nice holiday for Herbert, and for yourself, but I hadn’t anything like this in mind when I engaged you to teach my son . . .”

“Of course not,” cut in Pellerin, feeling embarrassed.

“. . . and frankly I am rather surprised that you should suggest it.”

Pellerin stared at her uncomfortably. She, at any rate, had had the courage to speak her mind. She was surprised. He felt a resentment growing inside him.

“Is it all that surprising?” he said with a certain aloofness. “I only want to show Herbert some of those places which figure in our lessons—Rome, Athens, Herculaneum—so that they will take on an aspect of reality for him.” And he added with a touch of irony before she could reply, “I should have thought that such a tour was inevitable sooner or later.”

“But you mentioned Portugal,” she replied, slightly confused.

“I didn’t intend that we should stay long in Portugal, and if one is going to the Continent, one might as well see some of the lovely cities of Portugal—Cintra for example, which Southey called the most beautiful in all Europe.”

“I see,” said Mrs Shakeshaft, finding (Pellerin supposed) the proposal not quite so outrageous as she had at first thought. “And how much would it cost?”

“A cool figure,” he replied.

There was a momentary silence.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what a cool figure is,” she said distastefully. And added with a little ironic laugh, “It sounds like slang to me.”

“A cool figure is a thousand pounds. I haven’t gathered it is slang.” The phrase, he thought, reflected his own coolness which since the start of this conversation had fallen upon him. A cool figure. There was something cool about Beatrice’s figure.

“Oh, I couldn’t afford that!” Mrs Shakeshaft exclaimed.

Pellerin reflected that when wealthy people say that they can’t afford this or that small sum, they mean it; it might be only one pound but they can’t afford it. A sort of financial constipa­tion comes over them.

He wished the conversation would cease, but she seemed in no hurry to stop. Another silence ensued.

“How is Herbert getting on? I was glad to hear that you think he could pass the G.C.E.”

“Admirably well, I should think,” he replied, not at that moment particularly caring if he would pass “admirably well” or not even pass at all.

“I’m so glad,” replied Mrs Shakeshaft in a lifeless voice. She was groping for something that she wished to say. Pellerin waited. “And how did your little talk with him proceed?”

As he did not reply at once, she added, “on the facts of life,” as if her meaning had not been entirely clear.

Pellerin had been expecting this question, but when it came it still made him start slightly. The solitary word “What?” broke from his lips.

Mrs Shakeshaft repeated her question.

“Your talk to Herbert on . . . on . . . on sex. How did it go?”

“It didn’t,” replied Pellerin, watching the look of disappointment break over her face. “Frankly, I don’t think Bezill is the right place for such a talk.”

“Why not?” she asked with an expression of alarm. “Why isn’t Bezill suitable?” Her eyelids narrowed as she looked at him.

“Why?” he said, clasping his hands together. He sighed instead of replying. It would be difficult to tell her why. In the first place he wasn’t sure; and in the second place, he didn’t choose simply to do what she told him to do in this connection. He felt like telling her quite frankly that he had read Homer and Virgil but not Havelock Ellis and Freud. Sex meant nothing to him, and he was the last person in the world to impart such instruction, especially at Bezill, with the butler stealing the brandy, and betraying all her secrets. In other words, couldn’t she see that he was in love with her?

She was tired of waiting for him to continue.

“I could do so in Greece perfectly easily but not here.” And before she could comment on this, he was talking to her about Priapus and fertility rites, the moral of which was that the lesson would naturally develop along the lines she desired when they stood before the statue of the erect god.

“This is all too roundabout,” she exclaimed. “I can’t follow you.”

“Then you won’t agree?”

“No, I won’t agree.”

“Oh, well, in that case . . .” said Pellerin, feeling that he should take a stronger line with her, but at a loss to know how to finish the sentence. Fortunately, she did not wait for him to finish the sentence.

“I shall have to think about it,” she said.

Would she really think about it? It was a disturbing idea. Was this an indication that she no longer cared for him? if she had ever cared! And did he really want to go away on the continent with Herbert?

“How long do you expect to be away?”

“Six months.” He would not stretch out the time. He could promise her that.

“It’s a long time, isn’t it?” she said. “Really, you surprise me, Mr Pellerin.”

“I surprise myself,” he answered, rather unhappily.

She had no comment to make on this irrelevant remark.

He was not going to rush round the galleries of Europe like a tourist who has half an hour to “do” the Louvre, and a whole day in which to see Rome. He looked reproachfully at his employer. He did not believe that she was really going to consider his proposal; she was only talking in this way in order to appear reasonable.

“There was nothing about going abroad for six months in our arrangement,” she erupted plaintively.

“True enough, but then the subjects you asked me to teach did not include biology,” he replied promptly, if a little impolitely.

“And must you go abroad to teach that?”

He was thoughtful for a moment or two. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”