And yet, as he had to admit to his sense of fairness, there was no reason why Alban should have engaged in chatty conversation. He himself resented fellows who were always “yapping.” Alban wanted to read the Sporting Times. There was heaps of room in the park for Bertram.
“It’s the Irish strain in me,” thought Bertram. “I’m always suspecting uncivil treatment when none is meant. It’s the ‘persecution’ mania. I’ll have to check it.”
Yet, in spite of all these arguments, his moodiness was increased at the luncheon table because of the almost complete ignoring of his presence by Joyce and her family. Not a word was said about the sale of the house—servants being present—and there was some general gossip, mostly by Alban and Lady Ottery, of a social and political kind. The Prime Minister had gone to Chequers Court for Easter, with his usual gang. The War Office had drawn up a complete programme in case the strike led to any rioting. General Bellasis was organising a Home Defence Corps. All ex-officers would be asked to join.
“Doesn’t it seem unnecessary?” asked Bertram.
Alban looked at him coldly, as he might have stared at a junior subaltern of the Guards Mess, after an impertinent remark.
“Extremely necessary,” he answered.
Lord Ottery put in a remark.
“Bellasis is coming down for the week-end, he tells me. We shall hear all about it.”
Bertram glanced at Joyce, and wondered whether she had suggested this visit. He detested Bellasis. Joyce seemed to be aware of his look, for she flushed, ever so slightly, though she did not meet his eyes. She had been crying again, he thought. Most unusual for Joyce. He felt very sorry for her. Sitting there at the old dining-table, under the portrait of Rupert Bellairs, fifth Earl, by Lely, it was impossible to believe that Holme Ottery was up for sale.
How like Joyce was to that fellow! He hadn’t noticed it before. Although Charles II’s favourite had a plump pink face, softened by long ringlets, he had the same kind of eyes and nose as Joyce’s, with the same glint of steel in the eyes. She sat next to her Mother, crumbling her bread and looking thoroughly “vexed.” He had seen her in such moods of late, at his own breakfast table, when she came down to breakfast.