The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [48]
“You must admit funny things did happen in the old days,” he said. “Maclintick’s story about Dr. Trelawney and the red-haired succubus that could only talk Hebrew.”
“Oh, don’t go on about the old days so,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “You make me feel a hundred. Try and live in the present for a change. For instance, it might interest you to know that a one-time girl friend of yours is about to sit down at a table over there.”
We looked in the direction she had indicated by jerking her head. It was perfectly true. Priscilla Lovell and an officer in battle-dress were being shown to a table not far from our own. The officer was Odo Stevens. For a moment they were occupied with a waiter, so that a brief suspension of time was offered to consider how best to deal with this encounter, superlatively embarrassing, certainly soon unavoidable. At first it struck me as a piece of quite undeserved, almost incredible ill chance that they should turn up like this; but, on consideration, especially in the light of what Lovell himself had told me, there was nothing specially odd about it. Probably Stevens was on leave. This was an obvious enough place to dine, though certainly not one to choose if you wanted to be discreet.
“Adulterers are always asking the courts for discretion,” Peter Templer used to say, “when, as a rule, discretion is the last thing they’ve been generous with themselves.”
If Priscilla thought her husband still stationed on the East Coast, she would of course not expect to meet him here. On the face of it, there was no reason why she should not dine with Stevens, if he happened to be passing through London. A second’s thought showed that what seemed a piece of preposterous exhibitionism only presented that appearance on account of special knowledge acquired from Lovell. All the same, if Priscilla were dining here, that meant she had cut the Bijou Ardglass party. So unpredictably do human beings behave, she might even plan to take Stevens on there later.
“Is that her husband with her?” asked Mrs. Maclintick. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him. I suppose you look on him as the man who cut you out, Moreland?”
I was surprised she knew about Moreland’s former entanglement with Priscilla. No doubt Maclintick had spoken of it in the past. As Moreland himself had remarked, she and Maclintick must, at least some of the time, have enjoyed a closer, more amicable existence together than their acquaintances inclined to suppose. The Maclinticks could even have met Moreland and Priscilla at some musical event. Anyway, Mrs. Maclintick had turned out to know Priscilla by sight, had evidently gathered scraps of her story, at least so far as Moreland was concerned. That was all. She could not also be aware of other implications disturbing to myself. So far as Mrs. Maclintick’s knowledge went, therefore, Priscilla’s presence might be regarded as merely personally displeasing, in her capacity as a former love of Moreland’s. However, so developed was Mrs. Maclintick’s taste for malice, like everyone of her kind, that she seemed to know instinctively something inimical to myself, too, was in the air. Moreland, on the other hand, having talked with Lovell only a short time before, could not fail to suspect trouble of one sort or another was on foot. Never very good at concealing his feelings, he went red again. This change of colour was no doubt chiefly caused by Mrs. Maclintick’s not too delicate reference to himself, but probably he guessed something of my own sentiments as well.
“The girl’s Nick’s sister-in-law,” he said. “You seem to have forgotten that. I don’t know who the army type is.”
“Oh, yes, she’s your sister-in-law, isn’t she,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “Now I remember. Not bad looking. Got herself up for the occasion too, hasn’t she?”
Mrs. Maclintick did not elaborate why she thought Priscilla’s clothes deserved this comment, though they were certainly less informal than her own outfit. Priscilla’s appearance, at its most striking, made her not far short of a “beauty.” She looked striking enough now, though not in the best of humours. Her fair hair was longer than at Frederica