She did not know what it was that caused her just to be aware of her ghostly surprise. She had in the beginning been taken in as they all had been. He had seemed on his first return from the hospital to be the same old Tom whom they had always known. For some weeks he had used a crutch, and his cheeks were pale, his eyes were sunk like bright jewels into dark pouches of shadow.
He had said very little about his experiences in France; that was natural, none of the men who had returned from there wished to speak of it. He had thrown himself with apparent eagerness into the dancing, the theatres, the house-parties, the shooting, the flirting—all the hectic, eager life that seemed to be pushed by everyone's hands into the dark, ominous silence that the announcement of the Armistice had created.
Then how they all had crowded about him! Claribel, seated in her dark little corner, had summoned them one by one—Mrs. Freddie Matcham with her high, bright colour and wonderful hair, her two daughters, Claribel's cousins, Lucy and Amy, so pretty and so stupid, the voluminous Dorsets, with all their Beaminster connections, Hattie Dorset, Dollie Pym-Dorset, Rose and Emily; then the men—young Harwood Dorset, who was no good at anything, but danced so well, Henry Matcham, capable and intelligent would he only work, Pelham Duddon, ambitious and grasping; then her own family, her elder sisters, Morgraunt (what a name!), who married Rex Beaminster, and they hadn't a penny, and Lucile, unmarried, pretty and silly, and Dora, serious and plain and a miser—Oh! Claribel knew them all! She wondered, as she sat there, how she could know them all as she did, and, after that, how they could be so unaware that she did know them! She did not feel herself preternaturally sharp—only that they were unobservant or simply, perhaps, that they had better things to observe.
The thing, of course, that they were all just then observing was Tom and his money. The two things were synonymous, and if they couldn't have the money without Tom, they must have him with it. Not that they minded having Tom—he was exactly what they felt a man should be—beautiful to look at, easy and happy and casual, a splendid sportsman, completely free of that tiresome "analysis" stuff that some of the would-be clever ones thought so essential.
They liked Tom and approved of him, and oh! how they wanted his money! There was not one of them not in need of it! Claribel could see all their dazzling, shining eyes fixed upon those great piles of gold, their beautiful fingers crooked out towards it. Claribel did not herself want money. What she wanted, more than she allowed herself to think, was companionship and friendship and affection.... And that she was inclined to think she was fated never to obtain.
The day when she first noticed the thing that was the matter with Tom, was one wet, stormy afternoon in March; they were all gathered together in Tom's lovely sitting-room in Hortons.
Tom, without being exactly clever about beautiful things, had a fine sense of the way that he wished to be served, and the result of this was that his flat was neat and ordered, everything always in perfect array. His man, Sheraton, was an ideal man; he had been Tom's servant before the war, and now, released from his duties, was back again; there was no reason why he should ever now depart from them, he having, as he once told Claribel, a contemptuous opinion of women. Under Sheraton's care, that long, low-ceilinged room, lined with bookcases (Tom loved fine bindings), with its gleaming, polished floor, some old family portraits and rich curtains of a gleaming dark purple—to Claribel this place was heaven. It would not, of course, have been so heavenly had Tom not been so perfect a figure moving against the old gold frames, the curtains, the leaping fire, looking so exactly, Claribel thought "the younger image of old Theophilus Duddon, stiff and grand up there on the wall in his white stock and velvet coat, Tom's great-grandfather."
On this particular day, Claribel's sister, Morgraunt Beaminster and Lucile, Mrs. Matcham, Hattie Dorset, and some men were present. Tom was sitting over the rim of a big leather chair near the fire, his head tossed back laughing at one of Lucile's silly jokes. Mrs. Matcham was at the table, "pouring out," and Sheraton, rather stout but otherwise a fine example of the Admirable Crichton, handed around the food. They were laughing, as they always did, at nothing at all, Lucile's shrill, barking laugh above the rest. From the babel Claribel caught phrases like "Dear old Tom!" "But he didn't—he hadn't got the intelligence." "Tom, you're a pet...." "Oh, but of course not. What stuff! Why, Harriet herself ...!" Through it all Sheraton moved with his head back, his indulgent indifference, his supremely brushed hair. It was just then Claribel caught the flash from Mrs. Matcham's beautiful eyes. Everyone had their tea; there was nothing left for her to do. She sat there, her lovely hands crossed on the table in front of her, her eyes lost, apparently, in dim abstraction. Claribel saw that they were not lost at all, but were bent, obliquely, with a concentrated and almost passionate interest, upon Tom. Mrs. Matcham wanted something, and she was determined this afternoon to ask for it. What was it? Money? Her debts were notorious. Jewels? She was insatiable there ... Freddie Matcham couldn't give her things. Old Lord Ferris wanted to, but wasn't allowed to.... Claribel knew all this, young though she was. There remained, then, as always, Tom.
Thrilled by this discovery of Mrs. Matcham's eyes, Claribel pursued her discoveries further, and the next thing that she saw was that Lucile also was intent upon some prize. Her silly, bright little eyes were tightened for some very definite purpose. They fastened upon Tom like little scissors. Claribel knew that Lucile had developed recently a passion for bridge and, being stupid.... Yes, Lucile wanted money. Claribel allowed herself a little shudder of disgust. She was only seventeen and wore spectacles, and was plain, but at that moment she felt herself to be infinitely superior to the whole lot of them. She had her own private comfortable arrogances.
It was then, while she was despising them, that she made her discovery about Tom. She looked across at him wondering whether he had noticed any of the things that had struck her. She at the same time sighed, seeing that she had made, as she always did, a nasty sloppy mess in her saucer, and knowing that Morgraunt (the watchdog of the family) would be certain to notice and scold her for it.