“You can be allowed to put in the milk and sugar, you see,” he said. He was aware, as he thus succoured and rallied her, of an influx of feeling like the feeling that came with the uncanny dreams. Here she was, and reality had caught her. She deserved to be caught, of course; tragic, meddling Pierrot. But his heart was heavy and gentle; as in his dreams.
They sat round the table together. On the mantelpiece was a large, framed photograph of Adrienne; on the walls photographs of a Botticelli Madonna, a Mantegna from Padua and the da Vinci drawing for the Christ of the Last Supper. Seeing Oldmeadow’s eyes on them Palgrave said: “Adrienne gave me those. And lots of the books.”
“And don’t forget the beautiful cushions, Palgrave,” said Adrienne, with a flicker of her old, contented playfulness. “I’m sure good cushions are the foundation of a successful study of philosophy.”
The cushions were certainly very good; and very beautiful, as Oldmeadow commented. “That gorgeous chair, too,” said Palgrave. “It ought to make a Plato of me.”
It was curious, the sense they gave him of trusting him. Were they aware, if only sub-consciously, that he was feeling Adrienne, her follies and misdeeds thick upon her, ill-used? Or was it only that they had come down to such fundamental securities as were left to them and felt that with him, at all events, they were in the hands of an impartial judge?
“It’s a happy life Meg and Mother lead at Coldbrooks, as you may imagine,” Palgrave took up the theme that preoccupied him. “They only see Nancy and Aunt Monica, of course. Barbara is at school and Barney, as you are probably aware, never comes near his disgraced sister. Would you believe it, Roger,” Palgrave went on, while Oldmeadow saw that a dull colour crept up to Adrienne’s face and neck as her husband was thus mentioned, “Meg blames Adrienne now for the whole affair! About Eric and herself! Actually! On the one hand Eric is her hero for whom she’ll mourn for ever and on the other Adrienne is responsible for the fact that she’s not ‘respectable’ and can’t claim to be his widow. Oh, don’t ask me how she contrives to work it out! Women like Meg don’t need logic when they’ve a thong in their hands and want to use it. And Adrienne’s shoulders are bared for the lash! God! It makes me fairly mad to think of it!”
“Please, Palgrave!” Adrienne supplicated in a low voice. She did not eat. She had drunk her tea and sat looking down at her plate. “Don’t think of it any more. Meg is very, very unhappy. We can hardly imagine what the misery and confusion of Meg’s heart must be.”
“Oh, you’ll make excuses for anyone, Adrienne! You’re not a shining example of happiness either, if it comes to that. It’s atrocious of Meg to treat you as she does. Atrocious of her to hold you responsible.”
“But I am responsible,” said Adrienne, while the dull flush still dyed her face. “I’ve always said that I was responsible. It was I who persuaded them to go.”
“Yes. To go. Instead of staying and being lovers secretly. I know all about it. And no doubt Meg would rather it had been so now. And so would Mother!” Palgrave ground his teeth on a laugh. “That’s where morality lands them! Pretty, isn’t it!”