to take the greatest care of
Miss Carlis and saying that he would look in after breakfast to see how she was. He had not yet arrived.
This demanded immediate action. The disappearance of Fosworthy was a plain fact, as Aviston-Tresco’s attempt on me was not. The police could be called in and told the little I knew. I wish
to God that I had done so then and there, but I thought it best to find out first what Cynthia Carlis had to say.
I sent up my name with a message that I was an old friend of Barnabas Fosworthy and would much like a word with her in the lounge. She came down almost at once—not in the least bothered
about Fosworthy but evidently eager to gossip with someone who knew him.
To my eyes she looked a lot less fragile and more normal than at the hospital dance, for she was dressed in an expensive and countrified sweater with a rolled neck. One was only conscious
of very transparent, white skin on her forehead and below her ears, and there was little temptation for the middle-aged to speculate on the extent of the network. She was also rather older than I
had thought, though well under thirty.
I introduced myself and made it sound as if I had known her Barnabas from childhood. Then I told her, to see how she would react, that he had called on me the previous night and asked me if I
knew of a respectable chaperone.
‘Oh, isn’t that like him!’ she exclaimed with a laugh which I found artificial. ‘He’s such an absurd darling! Do you know that he actually left for another
hotel?’
I replied that I did not. I had no intention of mentioning his disappearance until I knew how and where she entered the story. For the moment Petunia Avenue and Mr Smith were no business of
hers. So I merely asked what time she expected him to return.
‘He said he would be here at half past nine precisely,’ she replied. ‘But you know his habit of looking round corners to see what is following him. I expect that is just what
he’s doing and that he has lost himself.’
‘Did you always find him like that?’ I asked.
‘Losing himself? Well, he’s so absent-minded.’
‘I meant the looking round corners.’
‘Yes, except the first time we were out together. I thought it was just one of his peculiarities—things that make him different and rather attractive.’
‘Nothing else?’
She hesitated and admitted:
‘Well, there was a friend of mine whom neither of us much wanted to see.’
Obviously innocent! She knew nothing and was not being used. So I decided to go on playing the part of old and trusted friend and find out what the devil she was up to. I did not for a moment
believe that she was in love with Fosworthy. If she had been, she would have managed to convince him that his duty was to stay with her, separate rooms or not, instead of treating his
mannerisms as a joke.
I ordered some drinks while we waited for the lover who was not going to arrive, and let her interrogate me about his character and background. She seemed the sort of woman who is incurious
about the depth of our earthy roots, content to loiter through life in a complicated surface daze. Well, if appearance reflects character, I suppose that is about all one could expect from a
water nymph: weakness.
Yet, fluttery and irresponsible though I found her, I could not forget the kindness and self-possession with which she had treated the poor, old, flat-earth mathematician. The fact was that
her graceful body looked so sensitive and her manners were so automatically good that they covered up her lack of intelligence. In a way she represented, like Fosworthy, a continuance of the best
provincial society of the turn of the century.
I wonder how far she realised that Fosworthy’s own manners concealed an insanity of love. She may have seen their relationship as sweetly sentimental—like that, say, between some
college student and her much older tutor. She possibly went so far as to speculate about a gentle, physical
Miss Carlis and saying that he would look in after breakfast to see how she was. He had not yet arrived.
This demanded immediate action. The disappearance of Fosworthy was a plain fact, as Aviston-Tresco’s attempt on me was not. The police could be called in and told the little I knew. I wish
to God that I had done so then and there, but I thought it best to find out first what Cynthia Carlis had to say.
I sent up my name with a message that I was an old friend of Barnabas Fosworthy and would much like a word with her in the lounge. She came down almost at once—not in the least bothered
about Fosworthy but evidently eager to gossip with someone who knew him.
To my eyes she looked a lot less fragile and more normal than at the hospital dance, for she was dressed in an expensive and countrified sweater with a rolled neck. One was only conscious
of very transparent, white skin on her forehead and below her ears, and there was little temptation for the middle-aged to speculate on the extent of the network. She was also rather older than I
had thought, though well under thirty.
I introduced myself and made it sound as if I had known her Barnabas from childhood. Then I told her, to see how she would react, that he had called on me the previous night and asked me if I
knew of a respectable chaperone.
‘Oh, isn’t that like him!’ she exclaimed with a laugh which I found artificial. ‘He’s such an absurd darling! Do you know that he actually left for another
hotel?’
I replied that I did not. I had no intention of mentioning his disappearance until I knew how and where she entered the story. For the moment Petunia Avenue and Mr Smith were no business of
hers. So I merely asked what time she expected him to return.
‘He said he would be here at half past nine precisely,’ she replied. ‘But you know his habit of looking round corners to see what is following him. I expect that is just what
he’s doing and that he has lost himself.’
‘Did you always find him like that?’ I asked.
‘Losing himself? Well, he’s so absent-minded.’
‘I meant the looking round corners.’
‘Yes, except the first time we were out together. I thought it was just one of his peculiarities—things that make him different and rather attractive.’
‘Nothing else?’
She hesitated and admitted:
‘Well, there was a friend of mine whom neither of us much wanted to see.’
Obviously innocent! She knew nothing and was not being used. So I decided to go on playing the part of old and trusted friend and find out what the devil she was up to. I did not for a moment
believe that she was in love with Fosworthy. If she had been, she would have managed to convince him that his duty was to stay with her, separate rooms or not, instead of treating his
mannerisms as a joke.
I ordered some drinks while we waited for the lover who was not going to arrive, and let her interrogate me about his character and background. She seemed the sort of woman who is incurious
about the depth of our earthy roots, content to loiter through life in a complicated surface daze. Well, if appearance reflects character, I suppose that is about all one could expect from a
water nymph: weakness.
Yet, fluttery and irresponsible though I found her, I could not forget the kindness and self-possession with which she had treated the poor, old, flat-earth mathematician. The fact was that
her graceful body looked so sensitive and her manners were so automatically good that they covered up her lack of intelligence. In a way she represented, like Fosworthy, a continuance of the best
provincial society of the turn of the century.
I wonder how far she realised that Fosworthy’s own manners concealed an insanity of love. She may have seen their relationship as sweetly sentimental—like that, say, between some
college student and her much older tutor. She possibly went so far as to speculate about a gentle, physical
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