Part 18 (2/2)
”How could you _do_ it, Horatio? How _could_ you?”
”There was nothing else to be done. You can't expect me to take your sentimental, view of Ballinger.”
”It isn't Ballinger. It's poor Susan-Nanna and the babies, and the lavender bags.”
Mr. Waddington swayed placably up and down on the tips of his toes. ”It serves poor Susan-Nanna right for marrying Ballinger.”
”Oh--I suppose it serves _me_ right, too--”
Though she clenched her hands tight, tight, she couldn't keep back that little spurt of anger.
He was smiling his peculiar, voluptuous smile. ”Serves you right? For spoiling everybody in the village? It does indeed.”
”You don't in the least see what I mean,” said f.a.n.n.y.
But, after all, she was glad he hadn't seen it.
He hadn't seen anything. He hadn't seen that she had been crying. It had never dawned on him that she might care about Susan-Nanna, or that the Ballingers might love their home, their garden and their lavender bushes. He was like that. He didn't see things, and he didn't care.
He was back in his triumph of the evening, going over the compliments and congratulations, again and again--”Best speech ever made in the Town Hall--” But there was something--something he had left out.
”Did it never dawn on you--” said f.a.n.n.y.
Ah, _now_ he had it.
”There!” he said. ”I knew I'd forgotten something. I never put in that bit about the darkest hour before dawn.”
f.a.n.n.y's mind had wandered from what she had been going to say. ”Did you see what Horry did?” she said instead.
”Everybody could see it. It was most unnecessary.”
”I don't care. Think, Horatio. Think of his sticking up for you like that. He was going to fight them, the dear thing, all those great rough men. To fight them for _you_. He said he'd behave better than anybody else, and he did.”
”Yes, yes. He behaved very well.” Now that she put it to him that way he was touched by Horace's behaviour. He could always be touched by the thought of anything you did for _him_.
But Ralph Bevan could have told f.a.n.n.y she was mistaken. Young Horace didn't do it altogether for his father; he did it for himself, for an ideal of conduct, an ideal of honour that he had, to let off steam, to make a sensation in the Town Hall, to feel himself magnificent and brave; because he, too, was an egoist, though a delightful one.
Mr. Waddington returned to his speech. ”I can't think what made me leave out that bit about the dawn.”
”Oh, bother your old dawn,” said f.a.n.n.y. ”I'm going to bed.”
She went, consoled. ”Dear Horry,” she thought, ”I'm glad he did that.”
VIII
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