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"I'm overwhelmed by your thoughtfulness."
"Look, most men do this sort of thing, you know. At least, most men of our class."
"No, they don't," she said, but she thought of her father, who had a wife and a longtime mistress and still felt the need to romance Gladys Angelus.
Boy said: "My father isn't a faithful husband. He has bastards all over the place."
"I don't believe you. I think he loves your mother."
"He has one bastard for certain."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Then you can't be sure."
"I heard him say something to Bing Westhampton once. You know what Bing is like."
"I do," said Daisy. This seemed a moment for telling the truth, so she added: "He feels my bottom every chance he gets."
"Dirty old man. Anyway, we were all a bit drunk, and Bing said: 'Most of us have got one or two bastards hidden away, haven't we?' and Papa said: 'I'm pretty sure I've only got one.' Then he seemed to realize what he'd said, and he coughed and looked foolish and changed the subject."
"Well, I don't care how many bastards your father has, I'm a modern American girl and I won't live with an unfaithful husband."
"What can you do about it?"
"I'll leave you." She put on a defiant expression, but she felt in pain, as if he had stabbed her.
"And go back to Buffalo with your tail between your legs?"
"Perhaps. Or I could do something else. I've got plenty of money." Her father's lawyers had made sure Boy did not get his hands on the Vyalov-Peshkov fortune when they married. "I could go to California. Act in one of Father's movies. Become a film star. I bet you I could." This was all pretense. She wanted to burst into tears.
"Leave me, then," he said. "Go to hell, for all I care." She wondered if that was true. Looking at his face, she thought not.
They heard a car. Daisy pulled the blackout curtain aside an inch and saw Fitz's black-and-cream Rolls-Royce outside, its headlights dimmed by slit masks. "Your father's back," she said. "I wonder if we're at war."
"We'd better go down."
"I'll follow you."
Boy went out and Daisy looked in the mirror. She was surprised to see that she looked no different from the woman who had walked in here half an hour ago. Her life had been turned upside down, but there was no sign of it on her face. She felt terribly sorry for herself, and wanted to cry, but she repressed the urge. Steeling herself, she went downstairs.
Fitz was in the dining room, with raindrops on the shoulders of his dinner jacket. Grout, the butler, had set out cheese and fruit, as Fitz had skipped dessert. The family sat around the table as Grout poured a glass of claret for Fitz. He drank some and said: "It was absolutely dreadful."
Andy said: "What on earth happened?"
Fitz ate a corner of cheddar cheese before answering. "Neville spoke for four minutes. It was the worst performance by a prime minister that I have ever seen. He mumbled and prevaricated and said Germany might withdraw from Poland, which no one believes. He said nothing about war, or even an ultimatum."
Andy said: "But why?"
"Privately, Neville says he's waiting for the French to stop dithering and declare war simultaneously with us. But a lot of people suspect that's just a cowardly excuse."
Fitz took another draft of wine. "Arthur Greenwood spoke next." Greenwood was deputy leader of the Labour Party. "As he stood up, Leo Amery--a Conservative member of Parliament, mind you--shouted out: 'Speak for England, Arthur!' To think that a damned socialist might speak for England where a Conservative prime minister has failed! Neville looked as sick as a dog."
Grout refilled Fitz's glass.
"Greenwood was quite mild, but he did say: 'I wonder how long we are prepared to vacillate?' and, at that, M.P.s on both sides of the house roared their approval. I should think Neville wanted the earth to swallow him up." Fitz took a peach and sliced it with a knife and fork.
