In spite of many efforts, Willie failed to see Felicity again before he left London. He heard that she had gone to Brighton, and he was obliged to join his regiment in a remote part of the country. On the next occasion that he came to London she was still away, but he saw as much as he could of Horry, and turned the conversation in her direction as often as possible. He felt that, although he had known her so long, he knew her so little. He had no idea of who her friends might be, or how her life was spent, and he wanted most eagerly to find out.
He found Horry surprisingly unhelpful. He was, like many in his profession, extremely self-centred. Warm-hearted, sociable and very generous, he was always glad – unaffectedly glad – to see his friends, but never thought of them when he did not see them. He felt the same with regard to his sister. He was perhaps fonder of her than he was of anyone. There was nothing that he would not have done for her had she asked him. But when she was absent he never thought of her, and even when she was present he never questioned her about her plans or prospects.
‘But what is her life?’ asked Willie. ‘Who looks after her and takes her to parties?’
Horry could not have looked vaguer if he had been asked to solve a problem in algebra. These were questions that he had never asked himself.
‘Well, you see,’ he said with much hesitation, ‘she was grown up before Mum died, and I think she used to go to gloomy parties in Aldershot and round about. Then people, friends of Mum, would ask her to stay in London. Then she got keen on acting and went to the Academy of Dramatic Art. Then she got a small part in some half-amateur, highbrow show, which led nowhere. She’s got lots of friends, and she always seems perfectly happy.’ This he said almost defensively.
‘But how about money?’
Horry’s face cleared. Here was a question he could answer.
‘Oh, she’s all right for money. Mum left her everything that she could. Garnet was here at the time, and went into the whole thing very thoroughly. When everything was paid up and sold up and probated and executed and all the rest of it, he and I got a thousand quid each in ready, and young Felicity would have about five hundred a year safe for life in gilt-rimmed securities or whatever they’re called. It’s not the earth, but she won’t starve, bless her heart, and if ever she wants a bit extra she’s only got to ask her rich brother, the West End favourite with the big future in Hollywood.’
It was true that Horry was making a name for himself on the stage and had already appeared successfully in pictures, but it was not the financial prospects of the Osborne family in which Willie was really interested.
‘How about young men and all that?’ he asked, trying very hard to make the question sound casual.
‘Oh, she’s got plenty,’ Horry answered. ‘I’m always seeing her with them at restaurants. Nobody I know, though, and she doesn’t introduce them.’
‘What do they look like?’ asked Willie.
‘Not like you, Willie,’ Horry laughed. ‘No, not a bit. Flabby and floppy, coloured shirts and long hair, and I always hope they’re going to pay the bill. Girls seem to like that sort nowadays. It puzzles me sometimes.’
Willie’s feelings were mixed. Relief predominated.
‘Where does she live?’ was the next question.
‘She’s sharing rooms at present with a girl friend, while she tries to find a flat. They’re devilish hard to get these days. I’ve just seen one that I think will do for me, in Bloomsbury, very handy for the theatre,’ and then followed a long account of Horry’s own future movements which interested him very much more than those of Felicity.
Before they separated, Willie made Horry promise to make a plan for his next visit to London, the date of which he already knew. Horry would get seats for a play, a popular success, which he knew that Felicity wanted to see, and Willie would take her. They would all meet for supper afterwards, when Horry would bring another girl to complete the party.
So Willie travelled north with the comfortable sensation of looking forward to a certain day. He needed comfort when he got there, for he learnt that the blow had fallen, and that the regiment was to be mechanised forthwith. To make the blow yet harder to bear there came the news that Hamilton, who had been away for two or three years, was returning as second-in-command.
It was at this time that the thought of leaving the Army first presented itself to Willie’s mind, as a course that ought to be considered, and not as the abandonment of all that made life desirable. He had never taken any interest in machinery. He had never shared the interest which most of his contemporaries took in motor cars. He had found them useful for getting about and he had learnt to drive them, badly, but he had never tried to tinker with them when they went wrong. Even the little musketry and knowledge of machine-guns that a cavalry officer was obliged to master had proved a hard task for him, and he would not have liked to have had his knowledge tested.
Many of his friends who had joined when he had, and later, were now leaving the Army, and the news of mechanisation speeded up the dispersal. ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ one of them said to him, and the proverb, for some reason, stuck in his mind, and recurred to him as often as the possibility of leaving came up for review. But still he kept in his heart the ambition that he had had as a schoolboy and which had always remained with him. He was still young and active, and there were beginning to be rumours of war. The day might yet come when that ambition would be fulfilled and he would go into battle with his regiment.
The evening to which Willie had been looking forward arrived. Felicity came in her small car to pick him up at his club. He was standing in the window waiting for her. He felt proud to be called for by such a beautiful girl. They had a box at the theatre, which gave a sensation of comfort and intimacy. Between the acts Felicity took him to the bar, where she drank gin-and-orange, while he drank whisky-and-soda. He might not have approved of this in another girl, but she could do no wrong. He found no difficulty in talking to her. Conversation flowed easily. She told him that when she was a child he had been her hero. He trembled with pleasure, and asked her why.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose because the others were brothers, and apart from them I didn’t know anyone else.’
His heart sank. He asked her whom Horry would be bringing to supper.
‘I expect it will be Miriam Love,’ she answered. ‘They’ve been friends for a very long time. Horry does go off the rails occasionally – and so does she, if it comes to that – but they always come together again.’
‘What is she like, and what does she do?’ asked Willie.
‘She’s very pretty. She’s on the stage, but she hasn’t got a part just now. She’s married to a second-rate actor who does Shakespeare in the provinces.’
‘Does Horry love her?’
‘Yes, I think he really does.’
‘Will they get married?’
‘I don’t think it has ever occurred to either of them. She’s not divorced, so it wouldn’t be possible at present. Oh, Willie, tell me about Daisy Summers. I’m so glad you didn’t marry her. What happened?’
Willie told the little there was to tell, and Felicity listened sympathetically. He ended by saying how glad he had been to get her letter, and asked why she had written it.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I used often to think of you, and I was so sorry when I heard you were engaged to a girl of that sort.’
‘Did you think she was a bad girl?’
‘Oh no, no – only silly, ordinary, and pointless.’ They went on to the Savoy Grill, where they met Horry with Miriam Love. Willie recognised her at once as the girl who had been with Horry on that night, so many years ago, when he had invited them both to join him and his brother officers at supper. Ten years had made very little difference to her. He thought her better-looking than ever. He recalled that evening which they both remembered, and they laughed about how angry Horry had been.
‘He still gets very angry about things that don’t matter,’ said Miriam. ‘We had a terrible argument the other day about conscientious objectors. I said they ought to be shot, and that if they knew they were going to be there wouldn’t be any. There aren’t any in France or Germany. Horry got wild, said they were the bravest people in the country, and finally swore that if there were another war he’d be a conscientious objector himself.’
‘Oh, Horry!’ said Willie. ‘How could you?’
‘It was Miriam’s fault,’ said Horry. ‘She’s got a most irritating way of arguing. She can never keep anything in the abstract. If you say that the Chinese are very fine people, she says, “Would you like to sleep with one?” If you say no, she says, “There you are, you see,” and thinks she’s won the argument. If you say yes, she says, “Dirty beast!”
It was a gay party. Everybody had plenty to say; Willie less than the others, but he did not feel out of it. When he suggested that they should go on to the Players Club it was already too late. Horry and Miriam went off together, and Willie was left with Felicity.
‘Can’t we go on somewhere else?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she answered decisively. ‘I’m tired. Jump into my car. I’ll drop you. It’s on my way.’
He knew it would be useless to argue, but although he had enjoyed every minute of the evening, he was left with a feeling of failure. He thought it a pity that girls should own cars and should drive them. Especially at night. What were taxis for, anyway? He said good night almost crossly when she left him at his flat.
During the remainder of that summer Willie saw Felicity as often as he could. She seemed to have many engagements and never told him what they were. She never introduced him to her friends and, when he asked her to, said she did not think they would amuse him.
‘You mean I shouldn’t amuse them,’ he said.
‘No,’ she answered, ‘but they wouldn’t see your point, and you wouldn’t see theirs.’
She seemed always very pleased to see him, and although he did not tell her he was in love with her, she must have known it. When the holiday season came she disappeared without warning, and he heard that she had gone to Brittany. He himself paid visits in Scotland and Ireland, shooting and fishing, and thinking as little about Felicity or about the future as he could. He had been hurt by her going away without telling him, and he thought he would be wise to forget her. He began to hope that he had succeeded in doing so.
During the winter it happened that he had to spend a Sunday evening in London. He rang up Horry, and they arranged to dine together at a little restaurant in Soho. When he arrived there Horry was waiting for him at a table for three.
‘Felicity’s coming,’ he explained. ‘I told her she hadn’t been asked, but she insisted.’
While they waited Willie asked after Miriam and enquired, with assumed innocence, whether Horry still treated her only as his sister, reminding him of what he had said years ago. He was not in the least embarrassed, but answered frankly.
‘No, that platonic, pedestal stuff didn’t last long. It can’t between normal people. Her husband, about the worst ham-actor on the stage, was unfaithful to her first, so she saw no reason why she should go on being faithful to him. She’s a grand girl, and has a heart of gold. I love her.’
‘Why don’t you get married?’ asked Willie.
‘The ham-actor, who’s as nasty a piece of work off the stage as on it, won’t agree to a divorce. He’s glad of a good excuse for not making honest women of the girls he seduces. We’re very happy as we are.’
‘Don’t you want to have children?’
‘I’m not at all sure that I do,’ said Horry, and became more serious. ‘I have a good time myself and I enjoy life. I’m one of the lucky ones; but I’ve no great admiration for this world, and I shouldn’t think that I was doing anybody a very good turn by bringing them into it.’
Felicity arrived late. When the door of the restaurant was flung open Willie knew it was her, and when she walked quickly in and sat down without explanation or apology, he knew that he was more in love with her than ever. How happy he felt to be with her, and with Horry once again! How different their conversation was from that of his other friends! And how infinitely more amusing! They drank Chianti and talked until all the other diners had left, and most of the waiters. Then they drank liqueurs, until the proprietor was obliged, very reluctantly, to tell them that it was long past closing time. They took a taxi, and they dropped Horry first, and Willie insisted upon driving Felicity back to Chelsea. He threw his arms round her and kissed her passionately. She made no resistance. And when he told her that he loved her better than the whole world, and that he had never loved anyone else, she answered ‘Darling.’
It was not a word that she used often. Too many of her contemporaries had robbed it of its beauty, and reduced it to the gutter by making it the commonest word in their vocabulary. But in her soft, deep voice it retained its own dark tenderness and sounded to him like a magic spell. It conveyed love and sympathy, and promised surrender.
‘I’ve been so angry with you,’ he whispered – ‘I’ve tried so hard to forget you.’
‘Yes, I was afraid you were,’ she answered, very low.
‘Why did you make no sign?’ he asked, but she answered only ‘Darling.’
When they came to the house where she was staying he asked whether he might come in. ‘No, my love,’ she laughed gently, ‘of course not. There are people there.’
‘Then you must have lunch with me to-morrow, for I have to leave in the afternoon.’
‘I can’t to-morrow,’ she said, ‘but next time you’re here.’
They arranged when they would meet.
‘I love you so,’ he said.
‘I love you, too,’ she answered, and then firmly slipped out of his embrace and was gone.