HALF-HONEYMOON
“... And by and by my Soul return’d to me,
And answer’d ‘I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:
Heav’n but the Vision of fulfill’d Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire...”
Edward FitzGerald: “Rubáiyat of Omar Khayyám.”
A fortnight before Whitsuntide Lord Pentyre engaged a taxi for the day and drove round London, belatedly assembling a house-party for Croxton Hall.
“Mothers aren’t fit to be trusted!,” he explained querulously to Deganway, when they met in the smoking-room of the County Club. “I suppose it’s the war. They’ve got utterly out of hand... And you could always rely on mine to collect the worst-assorted cranks, crooks and bores in the length and breadth of Buckinghamshire. I vaguely left things to her... You must help me out, Gerry; we’ll make up a party of our own and freeze out the others.”
Deganway called for a draft list of the guests before committing himself.
“General Sir Maurice Maitland,” he read, letting fall his eye-glass in blank dismay. “Oh, my dear, he’ll want to talk to me about the war; no one can make him understand that it’s over... Lady Maitland... She always wants to know what I’m going to do about Russia and will make me responsible for the peace conference... Ivy... Oh, that’s the niece; Eric Lane has a wild passion for her—”