Richard explained.
“I told you to take them to the other man,” displeased.
“Thought poor old Marshall needed encouragement.”
“Then leave encouragement to people in a different position. I’ve warned you before that we must be careful.”
Stella was certainly careful; the most careful of the family. She would have nothing to do with the lady who recently came to Montagu Hall and who gave Richard one moment of sardonic happiness by demanding of Mr Gryce, in innocent and guttural friendliness: “Haf you got a dable-dime, my Sir?”
Mr Gryce, more successful with her than with the Marcuses—perhaps her credentials were less unimpeachable—had her removed within a week; but not before she had thrice beamingly tried to attach herself to Stella, under the false impression that here at least she was bound to find kindly compatriotism and shelter, and thrice had suffered a chilling snub delivered without consideration for her possible feelings: “She’s ever so much more German than we are,” Stella explained to the other members of her family; “we really can’t risk it—in our position! Just as well that old Gryce is getting rid of her.”
Richard thought: “It’ll be us next....”
He did not say so. After his one outburst to Ferdie, he never mentioned Mr Gryce to him again ... could not, somehow, get the name past a thickness in his throat. The three Marcuses imagined that Richard did not notice Mr Gryce and his malignant attitude—(“Richard was never observant!”).... He was glad for them to believe it. Mr Gryce had taken it upon himself, of late, to warn every fresh arrival at Montagu Hall, of the deadly growth in their midst. Richard watched him do it once, from the other end of the long drawing-room; he could have strode out, certainly; but, for discipline of that unruly sense of fear, he forced himself deliberately to witness the give-away; one did not surrender to fear without a struggle. But ... Mr Gryce worked himself into his sleep, now, and made it hideous. He dreamt wildly of scenes with Mr Gryce, in which, instead of hurling at him all the wounding, tearing speeches repressed during the day—which might have been some relief—he was compelled instead to follow him about, pleading his case, over and over again: “Don’t you—can’t you understand—it isn’t my fault? It’s nobody’s fault. You can’t stop yourself from hating us, but you couldn’t have stopped yourself from being born in Germany either—oh, do try and see that....” It was perfectly damnable to have to plead with Mr Gryce, even in sleep, and to be helpless in preventing the subconscious self from these humiliating displays. “Can—I—help—for—it?”.... Why, that was what Gottlieb Schnabel had gasped.... Mixed up with his dreams, the old sick dream of a flour-smeared face cowering from his pursuers—from Richard—from Richard himself....
His punishment, these slow fear-bitten months; punishment for his previous denseness of imagination. Yes, yes, but it has gone on so long, and there seems no end to it, and I’m tired and frightened and beaten—beaten to my knees. You who send punishment and You who can stay it, let it be over now....