‘Dudley, I want to speak to you.’
‘Tell her you can only be seen by appointment! Escape! Bolt!’
Mr Pickering did not bolt. Claire came towards him, still smiling that pathetic smile. A thrill permeated Mr Pickering’s entire one hundred and ninety-seven pounds, trickling down his spine like hot water and coming out at the soles of his feet. He had forgotten now that he had ever sneered at marriage. It seemed to him now that there was nothing in life to be compared with that beatific state, and that bachelors were mere wild asses of the desert.
Claire came and sat down on the arm of his chair. He moved convulsively, but he stayed where he was.
‘Fool!’ said Subconscious Self.
Claire took hold of his hand and patted it. He quivered, but remained.
‘Ass!’ hissed Subconscious Self.
Claire stopped patting his hand and began to stroke it. Mr Pickering breathed heavily.
‘Dudley, dear,’ said Claire, softly, ‘I’ve been an awful fool, and I’m dreadful, dreadful sorry, and you’re going to be the nicest, kindest, sweetest man on earth and tell me you’ve forgiven me. Aren’t you?’
Mr Pickering’s lips moved silently. Claire kissed the thinning summit of his head. There was a pause.
‘Where is it?’ she asked.
Mr Pickering started.
‘Eh?’
‘Where is it? Where did you put it? The ring, silly!’
Mr Pickering became aware that Subconscious Self was addressing him. The occasion was tense, and Subconscious Self did not mince its words.
‘You poor, maudlin, sentimental, doddering chunk of imbecility,’ it said; ‘are there no limits to your insanity? After all I said to you just now, are you deliberately going to start the old idiocy all over again?’
‘She’s so beautiful!’ pleaded Mr Pickering. ‘Look at her eyes!’
‘Ass! Don’t you remember what I said about beauty?’
‘Yes, I know, but–‘
‘She’s as hard as nails.’
‘I’m sure you’re wrong.’
‘I’m not wrong.’
‘But she loves me.’
‘Forget it!’
Claire jogged his shoulders.
‘Dudley, dear, what are you sitting there dreaming for? Where did you put the ring?’
Mr Pickering fumbled for it, located it, produced it. Claire examined it fondly.
‘Did she throw it at him and nearly break his heart!’ she said.
‘Bolt!’ urged Subconscious Self. ‘Fly! Go to Japan!’
Mr Pickering did not go to Japan. He was staring worshippingly at Claire. With rapturous gaze he noted the grey glory of her eyes, the delicate curve of her cheek, the grace of her neck. He had no time to listen to pessimistic warnings from any Gloomy Gus of a Subconscious Self. He was ashamed that he had ever even for a moment allowed himself to be persuaded that Claire was not all that was perfect. No more doubts and hesitations for Dudley Pickering. He was under the influence.
‘There!’ said Claire, and slipped the ring on her finger.
She kissed the top of his head once more.
‘So there we are!’ she said.
‘There we are!’ gurgled the infatuated Dudley.
‘Happy now?’
‘Ur-r!’
‘Then kiss me.’
Mr Pickering kissed her.
‘Dudley, darling,’ said Claire, ‘we’re going to be awfully, awfully happy, aren’t we?’
‘You bet we are!’ said Mr Pickering.
Subconscious Self said nothing, being beyond speech.
21
For some minutes after Claire had left him Bill remained where he was, motionless. He felt physically incapable of moving. All the strength that was in him he was using to throw off the insidious poison of her parting speech, and it became plainer to him with each succeeding moment that he would have need of strength.
It is part of the general irony of things that in life’s crises a man’s good qualities are often the ones that help him least, if indeed they do not actually turn treacherously and fight against him. It was so with Bill. Modesty, if one may trust to the verdict of the mass of mankind, is a good quality. It sweetens the soul and makes for a kindly understanding of one’s fellows. But arrogance would have served Bill better now. It was his fatal habit of self-depreciation that was making Claire’s words so specious as he stood there trying to cast them from his mind. Who was he, after all, that he should imagine that he had won on his personal merits a girl like Elizabeth Boyd?