North frowned irritably.
“No, I certainly should not call,” he said, rising from the table. “She is a lady, but you would have nothing in common, and I should not think she has enough money to make it worth while from the point of view Vi has put so delicately before us. That all right, Vi?”
His daughter rose too, and slipped her arm through his.
“Quite good for you!” she said. “And now come and smoke your cigar with me in the garden. Arthur will excuse you.”
“Certainly! Certainly!” said Mr. Fothersley, who sincerely liked both husband and wife apart, and inwardly deplored the necessity that they should ever be together. He recognized the lack of fine feeling in the wife which so constantly irritated the husband, but which did not alienate Fothersley himself because his own mind moved really on the same plane, in that he cherished no finer ideals. He recognized, too, the corresponding irritation North’s total lack of the social instinct was to a woman of his wife’s particular type. Pretty, vivacious, with a passionate love of dress, show, and amusement, Mrs. North would have liked to go to a party of some sort, or give one, every day in the year. She was an admirable and successful hostess, and Mr. Fothersley was wont to declare that Mentmore would be lost without Mrs. North.
They were great friends. Mr. Fothersley had never seen his way to embark on matrimony. At the same time he enjoyed the society of women. As a matter of fact he was on terms of platonic, genuinely platonic, friendship, with every attractive woman within reasonable reach of Mentmore. Undoubtedly, however, Mrs. North held the first place. For one thing the Norths were his tenants, occupying the Dower House on his estate. It was always easy to run across to Westwood, hot foot with any little bit of exciting gossip. They both took a lively interest in their neighbours’ private affairs. Violet Riversley had once said that if there was nothing scandalous to talk about, they evolved something, after the fashion of the newspapers in the silly season. They both loved, not money, but the things which money means. To give a perfect little dinner, rich with all the delicacies of the season, was to them both a keen delight. He was nearly as fond of pretty clothes as she was, and liked to escort her to the parties, where she was always the centre of the liveliest group and from which North shrank in utter boredom. They agreed on all points on matters of the day, both social and political; he gathered his opinions from The Times and she from the Daily Mail. He looked upon her as an extremely clever and intelligent woman. Also he was in entire sympathy with her intense and permanent resentment against her husband because he had persisted in devoting to further chemical research the very large sums of money which his scientific discoveries had brought him in from time to time. The fact that, in addition to these sums, he derived a considerable income from a flourishing margarine factory started by his late father’s energy and enterprise, of which income she certainly spent by far the larger portion, consoled her not at all. She spent much, but she could very easily have spent more. She too could have done with four or five cars, she too could have enlarged and expanded in various expensive directions, even as these new nouveaux riches. Fothersley, who devoutly held the doctrine that not only whatsoever a man earned, but whatsoever he inherited, was for his own and his family’s benefit and spending, with a reasonable contribution to local charities, or any exceptional collection in time of stress authorized by the Mayor, felt that Mrs. North’s resentment was wholly natural. A yearly contribution of, say, twenty-five guineas, to research would have amply covered any possible claim on even a scientist’s philanthropy in this direction, and he had even told North so.
Therefore it was only natural for Mrs. North to turn to him, even more than to her other friends, for sympathy and understanding.
“There now!” she exclaimed as her husband left the room. “Can you imagine any man being so disagreeable and surly? Just because he was asked a perfectly natural question. And I shall certainly call on the woman.”
“I believe she is quite possible from all I have heard,” said Mr. Fothersley, adroitly lighting Mrs. North’s cigarette, which had gone out. “As you know, I mean to call myself, if you would prefer to wait for my report.”
“Thank you. But may as well come with you. I shall probably be a help, and you see Roger says she is a lady, and, funnily enough, he really knows. I expect she is as dull as ditchwater; I hear she was something in the nature of a companion before she came into some money. But anything must be better than the Pitheys.”