“Yes, and in twelve or fifteen years’ time, when she’s my age, she’ll know that it doesn’t matter what a man represents symbolically or what he is. But what he will be, how he’ll wear....”
“I believe Gaymer was incredibly brave until his smash,” said Eric.
“And never really sober from one week’s end to another. He must have a wonderful physique... That’s another thing: I wonder how much of the immorality and unhappiness of the present-day is caused by a sort of shell-shock. It’s a great excuse; it may also be a reason... Have you seen Ivy since our talk?”
“No, but I believe we’re to meet on the opening night of the opera.”
When Eric entered Lady Maitland’s box the following week, he found Ivy recovered from her melancholy and pleasurably excited by the amusement and occupation which her aunt was contriving as a means of shewing her that, whatever changes the war had effected and whatever “those freakish people in Chelsea and St. John’s Wood” might do, it was social outlawry, self-imposed, for a girl of her age and position to live alone; and it was a pity to be outlawed before she knew anything of the life to which she was saying good-bye.
Eric participated in the conspiracy to the extent of conducting Ivy round the house in the second entr’acte. Though most of the singers were new to London, Covent Garden had regained very much of its old appearance. War, indeed, and the passage of five years had expunged some well-known names from the box doors; Bertrand Oakleigh’s place was taken by a war contractor, the double box in which Sir Deryk Lancing used to sit restless and alone, half-hidden by the curtains, had passed to Lady Poynter. But, though new names were occasionally seen and certain old names had taken on a British ring, the changes were inconsiderable.
“Is there any one you’d like to call on?,” he asked Ivy.
“I haven’t seen any one I know.”
“You’re to be envied.” Eric bowed vaguely and found himself caught up by three different women in as many minutes. “Let’s go back,” he suggested, as he took off the last of them. “I’m tired of telling people that I’m too busy to lunch out; and, though I hate work, I think it’s preferable to the average luncheon-party.”
He picked up his opera-glasses and began identifying and describing to her the occupants of the other boxes.