complete silence fell, and I suddenly felt quite overcome with weakness and misery. At that moment I could not envisage any kind of future at all, and the complete lack of any sense of control or direction scared and alarmed me. All I knew was that I must get rid of Joe quick, before he sensed my poverty, because even Joe was capable of pity and of kindness.
"I don't know why," I said brightly. "I just don't kind of fancy the idea of going out much any more. Anyway, think how embarrassing it would be, taking around a pregnant woman. Everyone would think it was yours, wouldn't they, and get on at you about it. You know how incredulous people are of the finer points of any relationship."
"You'd better tell Roger," said Joe, staring moodily at the ground.
"As a matter of fact," I said, thinking that however convenient I really could not allow this misapprehension to flourish, "it isn't Roger's."
"Not Roger's?"
"No. Not Roger's."
"Oh."
"So you see, things aren't quite what they might be." I made this remark with a wealth of bogus implication that must have convinced him completely, because all he said was, "Oh well, I do see." Which in the nature of things he could not possibly have done. However, on the basis of this totally meaningless understanding he took my hand and gave it a fatherly squeeze and said:
"Look after yourself, anyway, Rosamund."
"Oh, I will," I said.
"I suppose we'll see each other around, anyway."
"Yes, I suppose so."
And so we parted. As I walked home, I wondered what he could possibly have imagined the real situation to be, as the truth itself was far too unlikely, far too veiled by deception to hit upon: perhaps, I finally concluded, he had
thought that I had another permanent man about, whom I refused to marry or discuss through some perfectly characteristic quirk of principle. I hoped that he had thought that. It was the kindest conclusion to my vanity and to his.
Having thus successfully disposed of Joe, I knew I would have to dispose of Roger. I relished this task even less than the former one, for whereas Joe and I shared a certain area of moral background, Roger and I shared nothing at all. As it turned out, however, the evening on which I divulged my state to him was far pleasanter than the one I had spent with Joe, which had been marked by rather too much walking and chilly night air. Roger did not believe in walking: he would drive for miles and miles round his destination looking for parking places rather than park five minutes' walk away and continue on foot. I did not approve of this, being made of sterner stuff myself, but I enjoyed it.
On the evening in question, we had been to a cocktail party at Earls Court, given by some businesslike friend of Roger's: the drink was far too strong and after a couple of glasses I actually began to feel rather faint. Roger, being a gentleman born, soon noticed my pallor and the glassy look with which I was countering a young man who was telling me in great detail about the joys of accountancy, and he arrived to my rescue instantly and removed me to his car, which was waiting just outside the front door of the house. I sat there for a few minutes and then felt better: I felt cheerful enough in the first place because of the drink, and as soon as my ears stopped buzzing I felt quite splendid.
"Feeling better?" said Roger, as he noticed me perking up.
"Much better," I said.
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," I said. "I was probably just hungry, I didn't have much for lunch."
"Let's go and have dinner," said Roger.
"All right," I said, though as a matter of fact the prospect made me once more feel slightly queasy as Roger had a passion for highly elaborate food of the most indigestible kind: usually I survived it quite well physically though I doubted if I would tonight, but it always gave me moral qualms. My misgivings became stronger when he said:
"There's a new place in Frith Street that someone was telling me about the other
"I don't know why," I said brightly. "I just don't kind of fancy the idea of going out much any more. Anyway, think how embarrassing it would be, taking around a pregnant woman. Everyone would think it was yours, wouldn't they, and get on at you about it. You know how incredulous people are of the finer points of any relationship."
"You'd better tell Roger," said Joe, staring moodily at the ground.
"As a matter of fact," I said, thinking that however convenient I really could not allow this misapprehension to flourish, "it isn't Roger's."
"Not Roger's?"
"No. Not Roger's."
"Oh."
"So you see, things aren't quite what they might be." I made this remark with a wealth of bogus implication that must have convinced him completely, because all he said was, "Oh well, I do see." Which in the nature of things he could not possibly have done. However, on the basis of this totally meaningless understanding he took my hand and gave it a fatherly squeeze and said:
"Look after yourself, anyway, Rosamund."
"Oh, I will," I said.
"I suppose we'll see each other around, anyway."
"Yes, I suppose so."
And so we parted. As I walked home, I wondered what he could possibly have imagined the real situation to be, as the truth itself was far too unlikely, far too veiled by deception to hit upon: perhaps, I finally concluded, he had
thought that I had another permanent man about, whom I refused to marry or discuss through some perfectly characteristic quirk of principle. I hoped that he had thought that. It was the kindest conclusion to my vanity and to his.
Having thus successfully disposed of Joe, I knew I would have to dispose of Roger. I relished this task even less than the former one, for whereas Joe and I shared a certain area of moral background, Roger and I shared nothing at all. As it turned out, however, the evening on which I divulged my state to him was far pleasanter than the one I had spent with Joe, which had been marked by rather too much walking and chilly night air. Roger did not believe in walking: he would drive for miles and miles round his destination looking for parking places rather than park five minutes' walk away and continue on foot. I did not approve of this, being made of sterner stuff myself, but I enjoyed it.
On the evening in question, we had been to a cocktail party at Earls Court, given by some businesslike friend of Roger's: the drink was far too strong and after a couple of glasses I actually began to feel rather faint. Roger, being a gentleman born, soon noticed my pallor and the glassy look with which I was countering a young man who was telling me in great detail about the joys of accountancy, and he arrived to my rescue instantly and removed me to his car, which was waiting just outside the front door of the house. I sat there for a few minutes and then felt better: I felt cheerful enough in the first place because of the drink, and as soon as my ears stopped buzzing I felt quite splendid.
"Feeling better?" said Roger, as he noticed me perking up.
"Much better," I said.
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," I said. "I was probably just hungry, I didn't have much for lunch."
"Let's go and have dinner," said Roger.
"All right," I said, though as a matter of fact the prospect made me once more feel slightly queasy as Roger had a passion for highly elaborate food of the most indigestible kind: usually I survived it quite well physically though I doubted if I would tonight, but it always gave me moral qualms. My misgivings became stronger when he said:
"There's a new place in Frith Street that someone was telling me about the other
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