Chapters (30)
‘I cannot believe, Mrs Kerr,’ said Milton in a tone of such infinite irony that his voice sounded gentler than ever, ‘I can’t really believe that you’ve ever been clumsy. I should say that your patience was infinite. But she has this queer appetite for pain: it brings with it its own ingenuity, against which one can’t be defended at all points.’
With a sigh, with raised eyebrows, she allowed herself to accept this as possible. ‘Thank you, you’re generous,’ she said and examined him. ‘You, if you like, would have infinite patience. You two can’t, I think, fail to be happy together. I’m so happy about you’ – she looked round with relief as though rising again to the surface and by taking everything in with such eagerness readmitted the lounge to his consciousness – ‘and, as middle-aged women do feel, quite important; as though I were standing, like your good Moses, at some kind of vantage-point and seeing ahead of both of you plainer than you can. It would be equally nice, I believe,’ she concluded, swimming back to the plane she had come from, kind superficiality, ‘to be married to either of you.’
He was dismissed; she appeared to have done with him. The laughter and voices packed round them between the four looking-glassed walls seemed to rise to a climax, a positive shout. The lounge seemed for a moment to mean something – he glanced for a hint of the revelation at some of the faces, but whatever it was had escaped him; the faces were shut-up and blank.
‘If you will,’ said Mrs Kerr, ‘can you look out for Ronald? I don’t want him disturbed if he’s happy – just tell him I’m going to bed. It’s been so nice of you to talk to me about this, Mr Milton. I’ve always felt that we knew each other and yet, do you realize? we’ve not spoken for more than a moment before. If I’ve kept you from Sydney, forgive me. You must go now and find her. Good night.’
When she had gone he sat down on the rather hard sofa, across which the cushions had, as she got up, tumbled down into disorder. He felt the light slanting down on him stupefyingly from the mirrors and ceiling a protection from feeling, a barrier, like an orchestra above which one could not, even if one had wanted to, make oneself heard.