From then onwards there was seldom a day on which some small meteorite of this kind did not mysteriously fall from the outside world. One day he returned from the heath to find his cell heavy with scent in the half-dark, for the lights were rarely lit until some time after sundown and the window was very small. His table was filled with a large bunch of winter roses, which had cost three shillings each that morning in Bond Street. (Prisoners at Egdon are allowed to keep flowers in their cells, and often risk severe reprimand by stooping to pick pimpernels and periwinkles on their way from work.)
On another occasion the prison‑doctor, trotting on his daily round of inspection, paused at Paul's cell, examined his name on the card hanging inside his door, looked hard at him and said, 'You need a tonic. He trotted on without more ado, but next day a huge medicine‑bottle was placed in Paul's cell. 'You're to take two glasses with each meal, said the warder, 'and I hopes you like it. Paul could not quite decide whether the warder's tone was friendly or not, but he liked the medicine, for it was brown sherry.
On another occasion great indignation was aroused in the cell next door to him, whose occupant ‑ an aged burglar ‑ was inadvertently given Paul's ration of caviare. He was speedily appeased by the substitution for it of an unusually large lump of cold bacon, but not before the warder in charge had suffered considerable alarm at the possibility of a complaint to the Governor.
'I'm not one to make a fuss really, said the old burglar, 'but I will be treated fair. Why, you only had to look at the stuff they give to me to see that it was bad, let alone taste it. And on bacon night, too! You take my tip, he said to Paul as they found themselves alone in the quarries one day, 'and keep your eyes open. You're a new one, and they might easily try and put a thing like that over on you. Don't eat it; that's putting you in the wrong. Keep it and show it to the Governor. They ain't got no right to try on a thing like that, and they knows it.
Presently a letter came from Margot. It was not a long one.
Dear Paul, it said,
It is so difficult writing to you because, you know, I never can write letters, and it's so particularly hard with you because thc policemen read it and cross it all out if they don't like it, and I can't really think of anything they will like. Peter and I are back at King's Thursday. It was divine at Corfu, except for an English Doctor who was a bore and would call so often. Do you know, I don't really like this house terribly, and I am having it redone. Do you mind? Peter has become an earl ‑ did you know? ‑ and is rather sweet about it, and very self‑conscious, which you wouldn't expect, really, would you, knowing Peter? I'm going to come and see you some time ‑ may I? ‑ when I can get away, but Bobby P.'s death has made such a lot of things to see to. I do hope you're getting enough food and books and things, or will they cross that out? Love, Margot. I was cut by Lady Circumference, my dear, at Newmarket, a real point‑blank Tranby Croft cut. Poor Maltravers says if I'm not careful I shall find myself socially ostracized. Don't you think that will be marvellous? I may be wrong, but, d'you know, I rather believe poor little Alastair Trumpington's going to fall in love with me. What shall I do?
* * *
Eventually Margot came herself.
It was the first time they had met since the morning in June when she had sent him off to rescue her distressed protégées in Marseilles. The meeting took place in a small room set aside for visitors. Margot sat at one end of the table, Paul at the other, with a warder between them.