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‘I’ll do Lady Charmington,’ he said presently. ‘What does it matter? I shall be bored – but after all, painters must eat. There’s Mr Pots the painter, Mrs Pots the painter’s wife, and Miss Pots the painter’s daughter – all needing sustenance.’
‘Absurd boy!’ said Isobel. ‘Talking of our daughter – you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn’t seen you for months.’
‘Jane was here?’
‘Yes – to see Winnie.’
Alan brushed Winnie aside.
‘Did she see the picture of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she think of it?’
‘She said it was splendid.’
‘Oh!’
He frowned, lost in thought.
‘Mrs Lemprière suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think,’ remarked Isobel. ‘Her nose twitched a good deal.’
‘That woman!’ said Alan, with deep disgust. ‘That woman! What wouldn’t she think? What doesn’t she think?’
‘Well, I don’t think,’ said Isobel, smiling. ‘So go and see Jane soon.’
Alan looked across at her. She was sitting now on a low couch by the fire. Her face was half turned away, the smile still lingered on her lips. And at that moment he felt bewildered, confused, as though a mist had formed round him, and, suddenly parting, had given him a glimpse into a strange country.
Something said to him: ‘Why does she want you to go and see Jane? There’s a reason.’ Because with Isobel, there was bound to be a reason. There was no impulse in Isobel, only calculation.
‘Do you like Jane?’ he asked suddenly.
‘She’s a dear,’ said Isobel.
‘Yes, but do you really like her?’
‘Of course. She’s so devoted to Winnie. By the way, she wants to carry Winnie off to the seaside next week. You don’t mind, do you? It will leave us free for Scotland.’
‘It will be extraordinarily convenient.’
It would, indeed, be just that. Extraordinarily convenient. He looked across at Isobel with a sudden suspicion. Had she asked Jane? Jane was so easily imposed upon.
Isobel got up and went out of the room, humming to herself. Oh, well, it didn’t matter. Anyway, he would go and see Jane.
Jane Haworth lived at the top of a block of mansion flats overlooking Battersea Park. When Everard had climbed four flights of stairs and pressed the bell, he felt annoyed with Jane. Why couldn’t she live somewhere more get-at-able? When, not having obtained an answer, he had pressed the bell three times, his annoyance had grown greater. Why couldn’t she keep someone capable of answering the door?
Suddenly it opened, and Jane herself stood in the doorway. She was flushed.
‘Where’s Alice?’ asked Everard, without any attempt at greeting.
‘Well, I’m afraid – I mean – she’s not well today.’
‘Drunk, you mean?’ said Everard grimly.
What a pity that Jane was such an inveterate liar.
‘I suppose that’s it,’ said Jane reluctantly.
‘Let me see her.’
He strode into the flat. Jane followed him with disarming meekness. He found the delinquent Alice in the kitchen. There was no doubt whatever as to her condition. He followed Jane into the sitting-room in grim silence.
‘You’ll have to get rid of that woman,’ he said. ‘I told you so before.’
‘I know you did, Alan, but I can’t do that. You forget, her husband’s in prison.’
‘Where he ought to be,’ said Everard. ‘How often has that woman been drunk in the three months you’ve had her?’
‘Not so very many times; three or four perhaps. She gets depressed, you know.’
‘Three or four! Nine or ten would be nearer the mark. How does she cook? Rottenly. Is she the least assistance or comfort to you in this flat? None whatever. For God’s sake, get rid of her tomorrow morning and engage a girl who is of some use.’
Jane looked at him unhappily.
‘You won’t,’ said Everard gloomily, sinking into a big armchair. ‘You’re such an impossibly sentimental creature. What’s this I hear about your taking Winnie to the seaside? Who suggested it, you or Isobel?’
Jane said very quickly: ‘I did, of course.’
‘Jane,’ said Everard, ‘if you would only learn to speak the truth, I should be quite fond of you. Sit down, and for goodness’ sake don’t tell any more lies for at least ten minutes.’
‘Oh, Alan!’ said Jane, and sat down.
The painter examined her critically for a minute or two. Mrs Lemprière – that woman – had been quite right. He had been cruel in his handling of Jane. Jane was almost, if not quite, beautiful. The long lines of her body were pure Greek. It was that eager anxiety of hers to please that made her awkward. He had seized on that – exaggerated it – had sharpened the line of her slightly pointed chin, flung her body into an ugly poise.
Why? Why was it impossible for him to be five minutes in the room with Jane without feeling violent irritation against her rising up in him? Say what you would, Jane was a dear, but irritating. He was never soothed and at peace with her as he was with Isobel. And yet Jane was so anxious to please, so willing to agree with all he said, but alas! so transparently unable to conceal her real feelings.
He looked round the room. Typically Jane. Some lovely things, pure gems, that piece of Battersea enamel, for instance, and there next to it, an atrocity of a vase hand-painted with roses.
He picked the latter up.
‘Would you be very angry, Jane, if I pitched this out of the window?’
‘Oh! Alan, you mustn’t.’
‘What do you want with all this trash? You’ve plenty of taste if you care to use it. Mixing things up!’
‘I know, Alan. It isn’t that I don’t know. But people give me things. That vase – Miss Bates brought it back from Margate – and she’s so poor, and has to scrape, and it must have cost her quite a lot – for her, you know, and she thought I’d be so pleased. I simply had to put it in a good place.’
Everard said nothing. He went on looking round the room. There were one or two etchings on the walls – there were also a number of photographs of babies. Babies, whatever their mothers may think, do not always photograph well. Any of Jane’s friends who acquired babies hurried to send photographs of them to her, expecting these tokens to be cherished. Jane had duly cherished them.
‘Who’s this little horror?’ asked Everard, inspecting a pudgy addition with a squint. ‘I’ve not seen him before.’
‘It’s a her,’ said Jane. ‘Mary Carrington’s new baby.’
‘Poor Mary Carrington,’ said Everard. ‘I suppose you’ll pretend that you like having that atrocious infant squinting at you all day?’
Jane’s chin shot out.
‘She’s a lovely baby. Mary is a very old friend of mine.’
‘Loyal Jane,’ said Everard smiling at her. ‘So Isobel landed you with Winnie, did she?’
‘Well, she did say you wanted to go to Scotland, and I jumped at it. You will let me have Winnie, won’t you? I’ve been wondering if you would let her come to me for ages, but I haven’t liked to ask.’
‘Oh, you can have her – but it’s awfully good of you.’
‘Then that’s all right,’ said Jane happily.
Everard lit a cigarette.
‘Isobel show you the new portrait?’ he asked rather indistinctly.
‘She did.’
‘What did you think of it?’
Jane’s answer came quickly – too quickly:
‘It’s perfectly splendid. Absolutely splendid.’
Alan sprang suddenly to his feet. The hand that held the cigarette shook.
‘Damn you, Jane, don’t lie to me!’
‘But, Alan, I’m sure, it is perfectly splendid.’
‘Haven’t you learnt by now, Jane, that I know every tone of your voice? You lie to me like a hatter so as not to hurt my feelings, I suppose. Why can
’t you be honest? Do you think I want you to tell me a thing is splendid when I know as well as you do that it’s not? The damned thing’s dead – dead. There’s no life in it – nothing behind, nothing but surface, damned smooth surface. I’ve cheated myself all along – yes, even this afternoon. I came along to you to find out. Isobel doesn’t know. But you know, you always do know. I knew you’d tell me it was good – you’ve no moral sense about that sort of thing. But I can tell by the tone of your voice. When I showed you Romance you didn’t say anything at all – you held your breath and gave a sort of gasp.’
‘Alan . . .’
