—

‘It’s great to have you back, Charles; like the old days.’

‘Like the old days?’ I thought.

Rex, in his early forties, had grown heavy and ruddy; he had lost his Canadian accent and acquired instead the hoarse, loud tone that was common to all his friends, as though their voices were perpetually strained to make themselves heard above a crowd, as though, with youth forsaking them, there was no time to wait the opportunity to speak, no time to listen, no time to reply; time for a laugh – a throaty mirthless laugh, the base currency of goodwill.

There were half a dozen of these friends in the Tapestry Hall: politicians; ‘young Conservatives’ in the early forties, with sparse hair and high blood-pressure; a Socialist from the coal-mines who had already caught their clear accents, whose cigars came to pieces on his lips, whose hand shook when he poured himself out a drink; a financier older than the rest, and, one might guess from the way they treated him, richer; a love-sick columnist, who alone was silent, gloating sombrely on the only woman of the party; a woman they called ‘Grizel’, a knowing rake whom, in their hearts, they all feared a little.

They all feared Julia, too, Grizel included. She greeted them and apologized for not being there to welcome them, with a formality which hushed them for a minute; then she came and sat with me near the fire, and the storm of talk arose once more and whirled about our ears.

‘Of course, he can marry her and make her queen tomorrow.’

‘We had our chance in October. Why didn’t we send the Italian fleet to the bottom of Mare Nostrum? Why didn’t we blow Spezia to blazes? Why didn’t we land on Pantelleria?’

‘Franco’s simply a German agent. They tried to put him in to prepare air bases to bomb France. That bluff has been called, anyway.’

‘It would make the monarchy stronger than it’s been since Tudor times. The people are with him.’

‘The Press are with him.’

‘I’m with him.’

‘Who cares about divorce now except a few old maids who aren’t married, anyway?’

‘If he has a show-down with the old gang, they’ll just disappear like, like…’

‘Why didn’t we close the canal? Why didn’t we bomb Rome?’

‘It wouldn’t have been necessary. One firm note…’

‘One firm speech.’

‘One show-down.’

‘Anyway, Franco will soon be skipping back to Morocco. Chap I saw today just come from Barcelona….’

‘…Chap just come from Fort Belvedere….’

‘…Chap just come from the Palazzo Venezia….’

‘All we want is a show-down.’

‘A show-down with Baldwin.’

‘A show-down with Hitler.’

‘A show-down with the Old Gang.’

‘…That I should live to see my country, the land of Clive and Nelson….’

‘…My country of Hawkins and Drake.’

‘…My country of Palmerston….’

‘Would you very much mind not doing that?’ said Grizel to the columnist, who had been attempting in a maudlin manner to twist her wrist; ‘I don’t happen to enjoy it.’