Тринадцать гостей / Thirteen Guests

“Very,” answered John.

Two people came down the staircase. Harold Taverley and Anne. The signs of the road were no longer upon them, and both had changed to indoor clothes, but John noticed that Anne still favoured green. She was wearing a rather severe, close-cut frock that indicated without exploiting her slim boyish figure. Her dark hair was neat and smooth, and slightly waved. John gained an odd impression as she ran forward to greet Nadine that, while conceding to the moment, her real spirit was elsewhere.

“Nice to see you again, Nadine,” she exclaimed. “Wasn’t the last time Cannes?”

“Yes—drinking coffee at the Galerie Fleuries,” answered Nadine. “Did you have a good run?”

“Wonderful! You must try my new mare. She goes over everything.”

“I’d love to. But you’ll want her to-morrow?”

“Please! You can have Jill, though. We’ve still got her, and you always liked her, didn’t you?” She turned to John. “Do you ride? How’s your foot? Or are you sick of being asked? I’d be!”

“It’s the penalty of being a pampered invalid,” replied John; “and I don’t mind it at all. My foot’s fine, thank you. But I’m afraid it wouldn’t be well enough to join you to-morrow.”

“Beastly shame,” said Anne. “Never mind, we’ll fix you up with jig-saw puzzles. Let me know if I can do anything, won’t you? See you later, Nadine. Come along, Harold.”

Taverley smiled at John.

“We’d stay, but you’re being looked after,” he remarked. “Be good to him, Nadine.”

When they were alone again, Nadine frowned.

“Beastly man, that Mr. Taverley,” she observed. “He’s so hatefully nice!”

“I like him, too,” replied John. “Is niceness a vice?”

“Yes—like water. You must have something with it.”

“I imagine he’s got a lot with it.”

“Rather. All the virtues, and a perfect off-drive. And he hates me!”

“Oh, no, he doesn’t!”

“How do you know that?”

John coloured at the quick question, and at his clumsiness. He decided not to retreat.

“We talked of you,” he said. “Do you mind?”

She glanced in his cup, noted it was empty, and filled it.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she answered. “What else do people talk about but other people? But don’t tell me what Mr. Taverley said about me. Whatever it was, I am quite sure he forgave me, and so I’d have to forgive him, the beast!”

An interruption occurred. A uniformed nurse—Bragley Court could even materialise that—appeared abruptly and insisted on an application of surgical spirit. Surgical spirit during tea! But the nurse explained apologetically that she had a few minutes now, and might not have later.

“Does she look after Mrs. Morris?” queried John, when the nurse had soaked his foot and gone.

“Yes,” answered Nadine. “Poor old lady. She ought to be dead.”

“You mean—the release?”

“Of course! What’s the use? You shoot a horse or a dog when it’s incurable, but God wants humans to go on suffering!” She shuddered, and for once in her life misinterpreted the expression of a man who was dwelling on the movement of her body. “Oh, don’t think I can’t face pain,” she added almost defiantly. “But I don’t care for it. That’s why I grasp life while it’s here!”

She had spoken impulsively, almost as though thinking aloud. Her hand brushed his. She rose and walked to a window, drawing the long curtain slightly aside to look out into the gloaming. But all she saw was her own reflection and the provocative gown gleaming back at her through the glass.

John watched her, waiting for her to come back. Why was she so long about it? Why was he waiting with such an intense desire for her to turn? A sudden panic seized him.

“Nonsense!” he thought, aghast.

That morning, blind with grief and saturated with its egotism, he had flung some things into a bag and had fled from London. An unexpected letter had toppled his small world over. It had come with the surprising unexpectedness of a poisoned arrow. It had contained poison, too—poison that had polluted the very springs of his faith. And in the first pangs of his agony he had headed for a station—any station—and had taken a ticket to a distant place—any place—so that he might escape the grotesque irony of immediate obligations. Any place would do, so long as it was an unfamiliar place, a place without associations. Somebody ahead of him in the ticket office had said, “Flensham.” So he had said, “Flensham.”

And this was where the somebody had unconsciously led him—to her own reflection standing out vividly and tormentingly in the darkness of a window!

“Nonsense—nonsense!” he repeated in his thoughts. “I’m just in a mess. This is reaction. It doesn’t mean anything. Reaction, and my foot. Lord, how it’s hurting!”

He concentrated on the pain, trying to trick himself. He rejoiced in its re-discovery, and saddled it with responsibility for his condition. Pain played the deuce with any one. It temporarily distorted values, and gave fictitious significance to unimportant things. That was why patients in hospitals so often fell in love with their nurses....

Nadine came back to him as abruptly as she had left him.

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Stay here?” He stared at her. Her tone was almost harsh. “I mean—well, you’ve spoken so little about yourself, haven’t you? Aren’t you expected somewhere to-night?”

He shook his head.

“Where were you going when I met you at the station?”

“Didn’t you ask that? Anywhere.”

“That sounds morbid!”

“Don’t judge by the sound. I’m fond of roaming.”

“I see. And you roamed—here.”

“Yes.” He had a sense that they were going round and round in a circle, and he tried to smash his way out. “You know, I don’t think my foot’s half as bad as it seems.” Yet a moment ago he had been insisting on the pain of it. “I believe I could get away all right.”

“You think the foot could stand it?”

“I think so.”

“But the question still remains—where do you want to get away to?”

They were moving back into the circle again. He became exasperated.

“Yes, and that’s my question,” he retorted.

“Sorry,” she said.