They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with them; he liked hunting the rabbits—and while he leapt wildly about in the air to land on nothing more vital than herbage, they would sit very close to each other and watch him. Stephen knew many places where lovers might sit like this, unashamed, among those charitable hills. There were times when a numbness descended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her cheek lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but would just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly uplifted, and turning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she said suddenly one day:
‘Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we’re smaller than Tony—our love’s nothing but a drop in some vast sea of love—it’s rather consoling—don’t you think so, belovèd?’
But Angela shook her head: ‘No, my Stephen; I’m not fond of vast seas, I’m of the earth earthy,’ and then: ‘Kiss me, Stephen.’ So Stephen must kiss her many times, for the hot blood of youth stirs quickly, and the mystical sea became Angela’s lips that so eagerly gave and took kisses.
But when they got back to The Grange that evening, Ralph was there—he was hanging about in the hall. He said: ‘Had a nice afternoon, you two women? Been motoring Angela round the hills, Stephen, or what?’
He had taken to calling her Stephen, but his voice just now sounded sharp with suspicion as his rather weak eyes peered at Angela, so that for her sake Stephen must lie, and lie well—nor would this be for the first time either.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she lied calmly, ‘we went over to Tewkesbury and had another look at the abbey. We had tea in the town. I’m sorry we’re so late, the carburettor choked, I couldn’t get it right at first, my car needs a good overhauling.’
Lies, always lies! She was growing proficient at the glib kind of lying that pacified Ralph, or at all events left him with nothing to say, nonplussed and at a distinct disadvantage. She was suddenly seized with a kind of horror, she felt physically sick at what she was doing. Her head swam and she caught the jamb of the door for support—at that moment she remembered her father.
2
Two days later as they sat alone in the garden at Morton, Stephen turned to Angela abruptly: ‘I can’t go on like this, it’s vile somehow—it’s beastly, it’s soiling us both—can’t you see that?’
Angela was startled. ‘What on earth do you mean?’