“I’ll bet a fiver what they said when you told ‘em. ‘My dearest, if it could only happen’—that’s Nan. ‘Ah yes! Humph! sand at Sandport! We must talk this over before he decides’—that’s Barrington. We can guess what his advice’ll amount to, can’t we, old Duchess?”
It was safe to venture the endearment now. If they had nothing else in common, they were partners in their animosities. When running down an enemy together, he could dare to express his affection for her; his way of doing this was to call her Duchess. At other times she would brush him aside with, “Don’t be silly, Ocky.” She often called him “silly,” treating any demonstration as tawdry sentimentality. She had no idea how deeply it wounded.
Now, as she sank into the chair, he bent over and kissed her awkwardly. “Poor old gel, they’ve tired you out. Had nothing to eat since you left here, I’ll warrant. Put up your tootsies and I’ll pull off your shoes; then I’ll order some supper for you.”
“I couldn’t eat anything.”
The room was in darkness and the window wide. In the street children were screaming and playing. A mother, standing on her doorstep, called to her truants through the dusk——- Oh, for a gust of silence—a desert of sound without footsteps; Jehane felt that her life was trespassed on, jostled, undignified. Through the cramped suburb of red-brick villas crept the summer night, like a shameful woman footsore and clad in lavender. Red-brick villas! They were so similar that, if you shook them up in a gigantic hat and set them out afresh, the streets would look in no way different. They were all built in the same style. The mortar had fallen out in the same places. The front gardens were of equal dimensions. They had no individuality. If anyone attempted to be original in the color of her paint or the shape of her curtains, next day she was copied.
With the stale odor of tobacco mingled the sweet fragrance of June flowers. She had only to close her eyes and she was back in Oxford—Oxford which she had exchanged for this rash experiment. She wondered, had she been more patient, would something more delightful have happened. The sameness of economy had worn out her strength and its prospect appalled her.—If Ocky could contrive her escape, even at this late hour, what right had Barrington to prevent him?
He had gone to fetch her slippers—that at least was kind and thoughtful. She treated him with spite. She shrank from the familiarity of his touch. She hated herself for it; and yet she eked out the seconds of her respite from him.
A lamp-lighter shuffled by the garden railings; at his magic, primrose pools weltered up in the dusk.—This business of marriage—had she been less hasty, she might have done better for herself. Oh well, the wisdom which follows the event...
Footsteps on the stairs! As he knelt to put on her slippers, she conquered her revulsion and let her hand rest on his head. He started, surprised: it was long since she had shown him affection. His voice was shaky when he addressed her.
“Now you’re better, old dear. More rested, aren’t you?” She held him at arm’s length, her palms flat against his breast. In the darkness she felt the pleading in his eyes. “Oh, Ocky, you’ll do it this time, won’t you?”