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Authors: David Roberts
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did wonder as she looked at her daughter’s animated face if her problems did not stem from sheer boredom. Was she just tired of the empty round of dances, dinner-parties and night-clubs with which she filled her waking hours? Maybe, if Joe could get her a job on one of his papers she might be happier: if Verity Browne could be a journalist why should not Hermione? She decided she would ask her husband when they got to bed that night and see if he thought there was anything in the idea.
The Duke was looking tired and saying very little. It was typical of Ned, he considered, to have an accident driving his motorcar too fast. He was always crashing aeroplanes, motor cars and even boats, and as a result of this accident he had succeeded in breaking up his carefully arranged ‘meeting of minds’. It had all been going rather well, too. Ned had arrived just when the men, relaxing over their port and cigars, were at their most suggestible. It was the time when, with the ladies, bless ’em, out of the way, confidences could be made, friendships forged and unlikely alliances built, but Ned bursting in on the scene had destroyed all that. The women were back at the dining-table and the men could no longer speak freely with the easy confidence of gentlemen gathered in sacred harmony. The whole atmosphere had been ruined, the Duke decided. Before they had heard Edward and Verity at the front door, Craig and Friedberg had to their own amazement found common ground in disparaging the performance of the American forces on the Western Front in 1918, conveniently forgetting that without the Americans the war might have dragged on indefinitely. They told stories – no doubt, the Duke thought, apocryphal – illustrating the poor quality of the American infantry officer, and the two men, who had earlier been snapping at each other’s heels, had gone so far as to laugh at each other’s instances of American ineptitude. That breath of good will was dissipated by the new arrivals. The Duke felt aggrieved but could not say so. As he listened to Verity with half an ear, he reviewed the dinner.
When they sat down there had been some awkwardness about the empty chair but Connie had decided not to clear Edward’s place in case he arrived in time for some food. Hermione had in the end behaved herself, to Connie’s great relief, and had discussed dress-makers with Celia Larmore quite amiably. She had not even been too rude to Honoria Haycraft when the latter opined that night-clubs were the haunt of the devil. Unwisely perhaps, the Bishop had backed his wife up: ‘It’s the cocktails which do the harm in my view. They poison the system. All a civilized person needs is a glass or two of dry sherry before dinner.’
‘And all that smoking,’ went on Honoria, blithely unaware of Hermione’s scowl. ‘In my day girls did not smoke. It’s such a dirty habit.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the Duke hurriedly. ‘I think you are being unfair on the young. We haven’t left them much of a world to grow up in, you know. What do you think, Hermione?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ the girl said sullenly. ‘I don’t feel as if I am one of the “younger generation” anyhow. Ask my stepfather. The New Gazette is always doing stuff about “youth”. I’m sure he knows all about it.’
There was an awkward silence but the Duke covered it with talk of cricket and the moment passed.
The food had been good and the wine first-rate but the Duke pinned all his hopes on the hour the men would spend over their port once the table had been cleared and the ladies had left to take their coffee in the drawing-room. To grace the occasion he had selected two bottles of his finest port and he was determined, without looking obvious about it, to make it known to his guests just how favoured they were. When Bates had placed the decanter in front of him and offered round the cigars in an oak box which his grandfather had brought back from Cuba in 1883, the Duke
The Duke was looking tired and saying very little. It was typical of Ned, he considered, to have an accident driving his motorcar too fast. He was always crashing aeroplanes, motor cars and even boats, and as a result of this accident he had succeeded in breaking up his carefully arranged ‘meeting of minds’. It had all been going rather well, too. Ned had arrived just when the men, relaxing over their port and cigars, were at their most suggestible. It was the time when, with the ladies, bless ’em, out of the way, confidences could be made, friendships forged and unlikely alliances built, but Ned bursting in on the scene had destroyed all that. The women were back at the dining-table and the men could no longer speak freely with the easy confidence of gentlemen gathered in sacred harmony. The whole atmosphere had been ruined, the Duke decided. Before they had heard Edward and Verity at the front door, Craig and Friedberg had to their own amazement found common ground in disparaging the performance of the American forces on the Western Front in 1918, conveniently forgetting that without the Americans the war might have dragged on indefinitely. They told stories – no doubt, the Duke thought, apocryphal – illustrating the poor quality of the American infantry officer, and the two men, who had earlier been snapping at each other’s heels, had gone so far as to laugh at each other’s instances of American ineptitude. That breath of good will was dissipated by the new arrivals. The Duke felt aggrieved but could not say so. As he listened to Verity with half an ear, he reviewed the dinner.
When they sat down there had been some awkwardness about the empty chair but Connie had decided not to clear Edward’s place in case he arrived in time for some food. Hermione had in the end behaved herself, to Connie’s great relief, and had discussed dress-makers with Celia Larmore quite amiably. She had not even been too rude to Honoria Haycraft when the latter opined that night-clubs were the haunt of the devil. Unwisely perhaps, the Bishop had backed his wife up: ‘It’s the cocktails which do the harm in my view. They poison the system. All a civilized person needs is a glass or two of dry sherry before dinner.’
‘And all that smoking,’ went on Honoria, blithely unaware of Hermione’s scowl. ‘In my day girls did not smoke. It’s such a dirty habit.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the Duke hurriedly. ‘I think you are being unfair on the young. We haven’t left them much of a world to grow up in, you know. What do you think, Hermione?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ the girl said sullenly. ‘I don’t feel as if I am one of the “younger generation” anyhow. Ask my stepfather. The New Gazette is always doing stuff about “youth”. I’m sure he knows all about it.’
There was an awkward silence but the Duke covered it with talk of cricket and the moment passed.
The food had been good and the wine first-rate but the Duke pinned all his hopes on the hour the men would spend over their port once the table had been cleared and the ladies had left to take their coffee in the drawing-room. To grace the occasion he had selected two bottles of his finest port and he was determined, without looking obvious about it, to make it known to his guests just how favoured they were. When Bates had placed the decanter in front of him and offered round the cigars in an oak box which his grandfather had brought back from Cuba in 1883, the Duke
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