Part 16 (1/2)

”Father,” she said, ”you're booming terribly. Mother says you must come and play games.”

”I never play games.”

”Well, mother says you must. All of you!”

”Are we wanted at once?”

”Yes.”

”Then, gentlemen, we must yield. We were born too late. The matriarchy has returned. Do you agree to that, Cartmell?”

”Certainly!”

”There was a time when no young lady would have the daring to invade the dining-room and order the men to play games. Games, indeed!”

”Don't start again, father,” interrupted Margaret. ”I won't budge till you do.”

”Just think what you might hear!”

”Oh, I'm not a 'puffick lidy.' They pa.s.sed away with the patriarchy.

Now, come along!”

Games were a success because they were taken seriously. Mr Berrisford a.s.serted that if he must waste time in that particular way he meant to do it properly. So they all exercised great ardour and ingenuity, composed pretty rhymes, and drew the strangest pictures. At the end he insisted, however, that instead of taking famous men beginning with C, they should have infamous people. The test of infamy was to be a referendum. The game began well enough, because no opposition was raised to such people as Cicero or Christopher Columbus. But the inclusion of both Cromwell and Charles I. caused a heated argument and Cartmell was sure that they couldn't both be on one black list.

But Mr Berrisford exposed the crimes of both at great length. Crippen and Calvin both had defenders and the game at last broke up in confusion.

Martin enjoyed the evening, partly from vanity (he had done some quite clever things), and partly because he could watch Viola Cartmell without being noticed. To watch her was heavenly. There was nothing subtle or a.n.a.lytic in his adoration: for him there was just an indivisible whole called Viola. And that was perfect.

At eleven Robert declared that he still had some of the Ethics left and retired to find out about the contemplative life. Mr Berrisford took G.o.dfrey Cartmell to smoke a cigar in his study and the rest prepared to go to bed.

Martin went to his room and then came back and lingered by the staircase window. As he looked out he could see a solid line of fir-trees standing out with black severity against the moonlit sky, and farther away was the long shoulder of the moor--he could see the ridge they had climbed together and the rough peak which broke its symmetry and made its splendour.

Someone was coming up. It could only be Viola: the Berrisfords slept on the other side of the house.

It was she. Trembling, he heard the rustling of her skirts, the creaking of the stairs, her voice by his side.

”Hullo!” she said. ”Star-gazing?”

”It's a great night,” he answered.

She came and stood at the window. The closeness of her thrilled him.

”I wish those owls wouldn't hoot,” she said. ”Is that the ridge we climbed?”

”Yes. I did enjoy the walk.”

”So did I! The air up there is so splendid. And it's all so gorgeously empty.”

”I've been up before. But I enjoyed it much more this time.”