“Writing? Rot! What’s he writing? He’s breaking you in, my dear; that’s what he’s doing: establishing an alibi. What’ll you bet he’s just sitting there smoking and reading Le Rire? Let’s go and see.”
But Susy was firm. “He’s read me his first chapter: it’s wonderful. It’s a philosophic romance–rather like Marius, you know.”
“Oh, yes–I do!” said Strefford, with a laugh that she thought idiotic.
She flushed up like a child. “You’re stupid, Streffy. You forget that Nick and I don’t need alibis. We’ve got rid of all that hyprocrisy by agreeing that each will give the other a hand up when either of us wants a change. We’ve not married to spy and lie, and nag each other; we’ve formed a partnership for our mutual advantage.”
“I see; that’s capital. But how can you be sure that, when Nick wants a change, you’ll consider it for his advantage to have one?”
It was the point that had always secretly tormented Susy; she often wondered if it equally tormented Nick.
“I hope I shall have enough common sense–” she began.
“Oh, of course: common sense is what you’re both bound to base your argument on, whichever way you argue.”
This flash of insight disconcerted her, and she said, a little irritably: “What should you do then, if you married?–Hush, Streffy! I forbid you to shout like that–all the gondolas are stopping to look!”
“How can I help it?” He rocked backward and forward in his chair. “‘If you marry,’ she says: ‘Streffy, what have you decided to do if you suddenly become a raving maniac?'”
“I said no such thing. If your uncle and your cousin died, you’d marry to-morrow; you know you would.”
“Oh, now you’re talking business.” He folded his long arms and leaned over the balcony, looking down at the dusky ripples streaked with fire. “In that case I should say: ‘Susan, my dear–Susan–now that by the merciful intervention of Providence you have become Countess of Altringham in the peerage of Great Britain, and Baroness Dunsterville and d’Amblay in the peerages of Ireland and Scotland, I’ll thank you to remember that you are a member of one of the most ancient houses in the United Kingdom–and not to get found out.'”
Susy laughed. “We know what those warnings mean! I pity my namesake.”
He swung about and gave her a quick look out of his small ugly twinkling eyes. “Is there any other woman in the world named Susan?”
“I hope so, if the name’s an essential. Even if Nick chucks me, don’t count on me to carry out that programme. I’ve seen it in practice too often.”
“Oh, well: as far as I know, everybody’s in perfect health at Altringham.” He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a fountain pen, a handkerchief over which it had leaked, and a packet of dishevelled cigarettes. Lighting one, and restoring the other objects to his pocket, he continued calmly: “Tell me how did you manage to smooth things over with the Gillows? Ursula was running amuck when I was in Newport last Summer; it was just when people were beginning to say that you were going to marry Nick. I was afraid she’d put a spoke in your wheel; and I hear she put a big cheque in your hand instead.”
Susy was silent. From the first moment of Strefford’s appearance she had known that in the course of time he would put that question. He was as inquisitive as a monkey, and when he had made up his mind to find out anything it was useless to try to divert his attention. After a moment’s hesitation she said: “I flirted with Fred. It was a bore but he was very decent.”
“He would be–poor Fred. And you got Ursula thoroughly frightened!”
“Well–enough. And then luckily that young Nerone Altineri turned up from Rome: he went over to New York to look for a job as an engineer, and Ursula made Fred put him in their iron works.” She paused again, and then added abruptly: “Streffy! If you knew how I hate that kind of thing. I’d rather have Nick come in now and tell me frankly, as I know he would, that he’s going off with–“