A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [87]
“Didn’t even know he had a sister—of course, yes, I remember now—he had two at least. One of them, like my own, was always getting divorced.”
“This is the younger one. She is called Mrs. Duport.”
“What, Baby’s friend?”
He did not show the least interest. It was inexplicable to me that he had apparently noticed her scarcely at all; for, although Widmerpool’s love for Barbara had seemed an outrageous presumption, Stringham’s indifference to Jean was, in the opposite direction, almost equally disconcerting. My own feelings for her might still be uncertain, but his attitude was not of indecision so much as complete unawareness. However, the thought of Mrs. Wentworth evidently raised other questions in his mind.
“What sort of progress is Theodoric making with Baby?” he asked.
Truscott smiled, making a deprecatory movement with his finger to indicate that the matter was better undiscussed: at least while we remained on the terrace.
“Not very well, I think,” Stringham said. “It will be Bijou Ardglass, after all. I’ll have a bet on it.”
“Did the Chief strike you as being a bit off colour at luncheon, Charles?” Truscott asked, ignoring these suppositions.
He spoke casually, though I had the impression he might be more anxious about Sir Magnus’s state of temper than he wished outwardly to admit.
“I heard him say once that it took all sorts to make a world,” said Stringham. “He ought to write some of his aphorisms down so that they are not forgotten. Would it be an occasion for the dungeons?”
He made this last remark in that very level voice of his that I recognised, as of old, he was accustomed to employ when intending to convey covert meaning to some apparently simple statement or question. Truscott pouted, and lowered his head in rather arch reproof. I saw that he was amused about some joke shared in secret between them and I knew that I had judged correctly in suspecting latent implication in what Stringham had said.
“Baby doesn’t like it.”
“Who cares what Baby likes?”
“The Chief is never unwilling,” Truscott said, still smiling. “It certainly might cheer him up. You ask him, Charles.”
Sir Magnus was talking to Lady Huntercombe only a short distance from us. Stringham moved across the terrace towards them. As he came up, Lady Huntercombe, whose features and dress had been designed to recall Gainsborough’s Mrs. Siddons, turned, almost as if she had been expecting his arrival, and pointed with an appropriately dramatic gesture, to the keep of the castle, as if demanding some historical or architectural information. I could see Stringham repress a smile. Her words had perhaps made his inquiry easier to present. Before answering, he inclined towards Sir Magnus, and, with perhaps more deference than had been common to his manner in former days, put some question. Sir Magnus, in reply, raised his eyebrows, and—like Truscott a few minutes earlier, who had perhaps unconsciously imitated one of his employer’s mannerisms—made a deprecatory movement with his forefinger; his face at the same time taking on the very faintest suggestion of a deeper colour, as he in turn addressed himself to Lady Huntercombe, apparently requesting her opinion on the point brought to his notice by Stringham. She nodded at once in such a way as to indicate enthusiasm, the rather reckless gaiety of a great actress on holiday, one of the moods, comparatively limited in range, to which her hat and general appearance committed her. Stringham looked up and caught Truscott’s eye.
The result of the consultation was a public announcement by Truscott, as Sir Magnus’s mouthpiece, that our host, who had by then spoken a word with Prince Theodoric, would himself undertake a personally conducted tour of the castle, “including the