The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [121]
"Well, it was improbable, really. I never run into people."
Major Brutt drove his hands down slowly into his pocket, considering something rather uncertainly. He said: "And of course, that week you were abroad."
"Which week?"
"The week I just missed Pidgeon."
"Oh yes, I was abroad. You—you heard no more? He's not in London still?"
"That I can't tell; I wish I could. It's the very devil. He might be anywhere. But this other fellow seemed to get the idea that Pidgeon was just off somewhere—'on the wing', as we always used to say. He's generally just off somewhere. He never liked London much."
"No, he never liked London much."
"And yet, do you know, though I cursed missing him, it seemed better than nothing. When he's once turned up, he may turn up again."
"Yes, I do hope he'll turn up—But not where I ever am."
Fatalistically, she faced having got this out at last. She looked at herself in the glass with enormous calm. Major Brutt, meanwhile, turning his shoulder against the mantelpiece, investigated a boat-shaped glass of roses, whose scent had disturbed him for some time. Reverently, with the tip of a finger, he jabbed at the softness of the crimson petals, then bent over to sniff exhaustively. This rather stagey, for him rather conscious, action showed he knew he stood where she might not wish him to stand—outside a shut door, a forgotten messenger for whom there might be an answer and might not. Perplexity, reverence, readiness to be sad or reliable showed in every line of his attitude. He would be glad to move, if she only gave him the word. It was not his habit to take notice of flowers, or of any small object in a room, and by giving the roses such undue attention, he placed himself in an uneasy relation to them. He jabbed once more and said: "Do these come from the country?"
"Yes. And your nice carnations have just died."
Or was it likely he could be missing a cue, that Anna might have created this special moment in which it was his business to ask bluntly: Look here, just what did happen? Where's the whole thing gone to? Why are you not Mrs. Pidgeon? You are still you, and he still sounds like himself. You both being you was once all right with you both. You are still you—what has gone wrong since?
He looked at her—and the delicate situation made his eye as nearly shifty as it could ever be. He looked, and found her not looking at him. Instead, she took a handkerchief from her bag and blew the tip of her nose in a rapid, businesslike way. If she ever did seem to deliberate, it was while she put away the handkerchief. She said: "I should not be such a monster if Pidgeon had not put the idea into my head."
"My dear girl—"
"Yes, I must be; everyone thinks I am. That horrid little Eddie rang me up at lunch to tell me I was unkind to Portia."
"Good heavens!"
"You don't really like Eddie, do you?"
"Well, he's not much my sort. But look here, I mean to say—"
"Robert thought nothing of me," said Anna laughing. "Did you not know that? He thought nothing of me at all. Nothing really happened; I did not break his heart. Under the circumstances—you see now what they were, don't you?—we could hardly marry, as you must surely see."
He mumbled: "I expect it all turned out for the best."
"Of course," said Anna, smiling again.
He said quickly: "Of course," looking round the handsome room.
"But how I do skip from one thing to another," she went on, with the greatest ease in the world. "The past is never really the thing that matters