Part 10 (2/2)
”That,” said f.a.n.n.y, ”is how it struck me. But it'll keep Horatio quiet for the next six months.”
”_Quiet_? And afterwards?”
”Oh, afterwards there'll be his book.”
”I'd forgotten his book.”
”That'll keep him quieter than anything else; if you can get him to settle down to it.”
2
That evening Barbara witnessed the reconciliation of Mr. Waddington and Ralph Bevan. Mr. Waddington made a spectacle of it, standing, majestic and immovable, by his hearth and holding out his hand long before Ralph had got near enough to take it.
”Good evening, Ralph. Glad to see you here again.”
”Good of you to ask me, sir.”
Barbara thought he winced a little at the ”sir.” He had a distaste for those forms of deference which implied his seniority. You could see he didn't like Ralph. His voice was genial, but there was no light in his bulging stare; the heavy lines of his face never lifted. She wondered: Was it Ralph's brilliant youth that had offended him, reminding him, even when he refused to recognize his fascination? For you could see that he did refuse, that he regarded Ralph Bevan as an inferior, insignificant personality. Barbara had to revise her theory. He wasn't jealous of him. It would never occur to him that f.a.n.n.y, or Barbara for that matter, could find Ralph interesting. Nothing could disturb for a moment his immense satisfaction with himself. He conducted dinner with a superb detachment, confining his attention to f.a.n.n.y and Barbara, as if he were pretending that Ralph wasn't there, until suddenly he heard f.a.n.n.y asking him if he knew anything about the National League of Liberty and what he thought of it.
”Mr. Waddington doesn't want to know what I think of it.”
”No, but we want to.”
”My dear f.a.n.n.y, any opinion, any honest opinion--”
”Oh, Ralph's opinion will be honest enough.”
”Honest, I daresay,” said Mr. Waddington.
”Well, if you really want to know, I think it's a pathological symptom.”
”A what?” said Mr. Waddington, startled into a show of interest.
”Pathological symptom. It's all funk. Blue funk. True blue funk.”
”That's what Barbara says.”
The young man looked at Barbara as much as to say, ”I knew I could trust you to take the only intelligent view.”
”It's run,” he said, ”by a few imbeciles, like Sir Maurice Gedge.
They're scared out of their lives of Bolshevism.”
”Do you mean to say that Bolshevism isn't dangerous?”
”Not in this country.”
”Perhaps, then, you'd like to see a Soviet Government in this country?”
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