Hearing Secret Harmonies - Anthony Powell [40]
‘The title of Mr Gwinnett’s book is curiously like that of my own last novel, JG. Do you think he could have had time to be influenced by reading it? I’m so anxious to meet him. There’s something I must tell him in confidence about Trappy.’
Quiggin, offering no opinion on book-tides, restated his own position.
‘I oughtn’t to have come tonight. I’m feeling rotten.’
‘Do you think Kenneth Widmerpool knows Mr Gwinnett is in London?’ Ada remarked.
That gave Members his chance.
‘Hadn’t you heard Widmerpool’s coming tonight, Ada? He’s bringing Amanda and Belinda.’
Members could not conceal all surprise at his luck in being able to announce that to the twins’ parents. Ada controlled herself, but looked extremely put out. The information was altogether too much for her husband. Quiggin and Members might be on good terms these days, even so, there were limits to what Quiggin was prepared to take from his old friend. He received this disclosure as if it were a simple display of spite on the part of Members, whose genial tone did not entirely discount that proposition. Quiggin, pasty-faced from his indisposition, went red. He gave way to a violent fit of coughing. When this seizure was at an end, he burst out, in the middle of the sentence his voice rising to a near screech.
‘Amanda and Belinda are coming to this dinner?’
Members was not prepared for his words to have had so violent an effect. He now spoke soothingly.
‘Kenneth Widmerpool simply asked if he could bring them. There seemed no objection.’
‘But why the buggery is Widmerpool coming himself?’
‘He was just invited.’
Members said that disingenuously, as if inviting Widmerpool was the most natural thing in the world. In one sense it might be, but not within existing circumstances. Quiggin was too cross to think that out.
‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell us before, Mark? I didn’t realize all the thing with Widmerpool and the twins was still going on. Anyway why should they want to turn up at a party like this?’
Ada intervened. Even if the announcement were just as irritating for herself, she was better able to conceal annoyance.
‘Oh, do shut up about the girls, JG. They’re all right. We know about their seeing a lot of Widmerpool. No harm in that. They joke about it themselves. After all he’s chancellor of their bloody university. If anybody’s got a right to be friends with them, he has. They might easily have been sent down, even these days, if it hadn’t been for him. Why shouldn’t they come and hear who’s won the Prize. Do have some sense. Why, hullo, Evadne. Congratulations on Cain’s Jawbone. I haven’t read it yet, but it’s on my list. Hullo, Quentin. What news on the cultural front? I enjoyed your piece on Musil, Bernard. So did JG. Have you read the Gwinnett book?’
Isobel arrived. She and I were talking with Salvidge, and his new wife, when Delavacquerie came up. He brought with him a smallish bald thick-set man, wearing a dark suit of international cut, and somewhat unEnglish tie.
‘Here’s Professor Gwinnett, Nick.’
Delavacquerie, rather justly, said that a little reprovingly, as if I might have been expected, if not to mark down Gwinnett’s entry into the room, at least to show quicker reaction, when brought face to face with him in person. Whatever Delavacquerie’s right to take that line, I should have been quite unaware who the man in the dark suit might be, without this specific statement of identity. It was lucky I had not been close to the door when Gwinnett entered the room. So far as I was concerned, he was unrecognizable. Since Venice, a drastic transformation had taken place. Gwinnett held out his hand. He did not speak or smile.
‘Hullo, Russell.’
‘Good to see you, Nicholas.’
‘You got my letter?