A Modern Tragedy by Phyllis Bentley Page B

when it wasn’t. Whereas she believed that art was the quintessence of life; she believed in
the might of design, the mystery of colour, and the redemption of all things by beauty everlasting.
It seemed sad to her that, while Arnold so obviously disapproved of the Harlequin atmosphere—the easy informality, the disregard of wealth as a standard of value—he should yet, equally obviously, find in it something he unconsciously enjoyed. (And probably the things he disapproved were the things which really made it agreeable to him.)
    â€œI thought you said you should leave me if I wasn’t out by ten,” she remarked to him in a tone of mischief, with sparkling eyes.
    â€œI don’t think I said that, Rosamond,” said Arnold mildly.
    Rosamond laughed a little, and they went out amicably together to Arnold’s car.
    As they drove away, with Arnold at the wheel, he enquired about Dyson’s health, and Rosamond gave her sad account of the previous night’s attack which had made her father incapable of business to-day. In her turn she asked after Reetha, Arnold’s lively and wilful little daughter, who had been sent rather early away to school.
    Arnold had made a hasty, and in his parents’ eyes unsuitable, love-match during the War; and their forebodings had been justified by his wife’s behaviour, for after giving birth to a girl child (“and calling her by such a preposterous name,” complained Mrs. Lumb) she ran away with another man while her husband was at the front. However, shortly after the conclusion of the War she conveniently died—that, at least, was how Arnold’s mother regarded it; Arnold himself, Rosamond suspected, might feel differently. She sometimes wondered whether Arnold were not falling in love with her, but rather felt that such a rash act was beyond his scope. Time would reveal the truth of that, as of other things, however; and meanwhile Rosamond liked Arnold’s friendship, and was glad to make a little light relief in his rather heavy days.
    â€œHow is business, Arnold?” she asked, on this.
    â€œBad,” replied Arnold laconically. He sniffed as he drew up the car in response to a red light for the second time in two minutes: “These robots here make us the laughingstock of the West Riding,” he grumbled.
    Rosamond, who had heard the same remark from him a considerable number of times before, smiled at him in affectionate amusement. Something warm and loving in her glance made him blurt out suddenly: “I had to arrange an overdraft with the bank this afternoon.”
    â€œArnold!” exclaimed Rosamond, alarmed. Then, thinkingthat perhaps her lack of business experience was magnifying the occurrence unduly, she added: “But perhaps you’ve had them before?”
    â€œNot of this size,” said Arnold grimly. The signals changed through yellow to green. He drove on, saying: “You’d best not tell your father anything about it.”
    â€œNo,” said Rosamond dutifully.
    â€œFather’s a good deal upset, as you can imagine. He went home from the mill early—pretended it was the heat. I’ll tell you what, Rosamond,” continued Arnold, who seemed to find it a relief to float on the tide of confidence now he had taken the plunge: “If this depression goes on much longer, it’s going to be a stiff fight to pull us through.”
    â€œIs it really?” said Rosamond, troubled for his sake. “But do you think you’ll manage it, Arnold?”
    â€œYes,” he said emphatically.
    They were now driving up the hill to Moorside Place. The cool night breeze blew deliciously in Rosamond’s uncovered hair. “I think I shall grow my hair again, Arnold,” she said, hoping to distract his attention from the cares of the day.
    â€œOh, I shouldn’t do that, Rosamond,” said Arnold seriously.
    â€œWhy not? You didn’t want me to cut it off,