Despite his bewilderment he felt the moment to be exquisitely rich in beauty and in destiny. The pause lengthened. At last he stammered, ‘In that event, of course, you would ask ... some friend.’
‘Yes.’ Betty’s tone was cold. ‘Forgive me for boring you.’ She jumped up. ‘I’m getting stiff. Shall we move on?’
Something had gone wrong. Arnold grappled feverishly with the incomprehensible. Had he said too much? No, too little. Betty was already walking away. He could see only her back. When he caught her up, the sight of her pride made him angry with himself; yet he felt tongue-tied. He knew that he had failed her in a supreme crisis. Could he have had that opportunity again he would for her sake have risked all, and said, ‘Let me be the father of your child.’ But she was talking now, rather volubly and consciously, of indifferent things. Nothing would ever be the same again. Anger, jealous anger, flamed in his heart against the child, never to be born, who stood like a ghost between them, severing their friendship.
THE HOUSE AT MAADI
THE HOUSE AT MAADI
PART THE FIRST
An Afternoon in April
‘UGLINESS, squalor, is only a nuisance,’ he told himself. ‘It is beauty that hurts.’ Even in the house at Maadi, the house that held Rosemary Fairfield, he could lose himself in musing; and he remained lost until he became aware that a tall elderly woman with fine eyes and silvering hair moved across the room to greet him.
‘You’re Mr. Redshawe, of course. I’m Rosemary’s mother. It was so good of you to come.’ The young man’s evident shyness moved her to add, ‘You have met Rosemary, haven’t you?’
‘Thank you.’ He found his voice at last. ‘Yes, I had that pleasure three days ago in Cairo. She was in the company of Mr. Bunnard, my chief.’
‘My brother-in-law,’ said Mrs. Fairfield. ‘You like your work?’