§ 6
She found him in the garden seated in a deck-chair (adjusted to the bottom notch) reading the Observer. He wore grey flannel trousers and a sort of Donegal tweed sporting jacket. He was utterly divorced from the prevailing atmosphere of Upton Rising in that his attire betrayed no indication of the fact that it was Sunday. Catherine thought: “How delightfully Bohemian!” and (an after-thought), “He certainly hasn’t dressed up for me, anyway.”
“Hullo!” he cried, as she obtruded herself into the alcove of shrubbery which ringed him round almost completely. And he rose (a matter of obvious difficulty) and shook hands with her. He dropped the Observer on the lawn. Also he smiled at her: it was not a beautiful smile, because he could not smile beautifully, but it was a smile of welcome.
“Come along, and well find another chair,” he said. They strolled over the lawn and towards the house.
“I’m taking a day off,” he said briskly, “and I think I deserve it. The first day off I’ve had for months.”
“Except last Monday,” she put in.
“Why—what happened then?”
“You were at High Beech. I saw you.”
“Oh, Bank Holiday, you mean? Oh, that wasn’t pleasure exactly. Miss Trant and I had gone to Hertfordshire to collect some data in connection with a new book I’m on with. Coming back we thought we’d go past High Beech—that was all.”
“Another book?”
“Only a treatise on economics—not at all interesting to most people, I assure you. You’d probably find it extremely tiresome.”
“How do you know?” she asked aggressively. She disliked his readiness to lump her among the “most people.” Also she was annoyed to think that what he said was probably true, that she would find it extremely tiresome. She had tackled his Village Community (the first chapter) and been unable to make head or tail of it.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I only think ... Mrs. Tebbutt!”
The summons was presumably to someone in the house. A female voice called “Yes!”
“Bring some tea outside, will you?” he sang out, and the voice within responded with a resigned, “Very well, sir.” ... Into an outhouse he plunged, and emerged with a deck-chair and cushions.
“Come on,” he said, and handed her the cushions to carry. “It’s pretty cool round by those shrubs.”
They strolled back over the lawn, and took up positions facing one another.
“Mind if I smoke?” he remarked, and before she could murmur a “Oh, not at all,” he had lit a cigarette and was puffing at it.
“Smoke yourself?” he then said.
“Thanks,” she replied, and took one out of a box of Egyptian cigarettes that lay on the ground beside him.
“Now,” he began, “about that recital....”
“Yes?”
“Let me talk to you a bit.... Do you know anything about recitals? No, of course you don’t. Well, listen to me.... A recital ...”