“You don’t suppose I’d do it through her if I was going to resign?”
Feverstone’s smile brightened and widened. “It doesn’t make any odds, you know,” he said. “If the N.I.C.E. want you to have a nominal job somewhere outside Belbury, you’ll have one: and if they don’t, you won’t. Just like that.”
“Damn the N.I.C.E. I’m merely trying to retain the Fellowship I already had, which is no concern of theirs. One doesn’t want to fall between two stools.”
“One doesn’t want to.”
“You mean?”
“Take my advice and get into Wither’s good books again as soon as you can. I gave you a good start but you seem to have rubbed him up the wrong way. His attitude has changed since this morning. You need to humour him, you know. And just between ourselves, I wouldn’t be too thick with the Fairy: it won’t do you any good higher up. There are wheels within wheels.”
“In the meantime,” said Mark, “I’ve written to Curry to explain that it’s all rot about my resignation.”
“No harm if it amuses you,” said Feverstone, still smiling.
“Well, I don’t suppose College wants to kick me out simply because Curry misunderstood something Miss Hardcastle said to you.”
“You can’t be deprived of a fellowship under any statute I know, except for gross immorality.”
“No, of course not. I didn’t mean that. I meant not being re-elected when I come up for re-election next term.”
“Oh. I see.”
“And that’s why I must rely on you to get that idea out of Curry’s head.”
Feverstone said nothing.
“You will be sure,” urged Mark against his own better judgement, “to make it quite clear to him that the whole thing was a misunderstanding.”
“Don’t you know Curry? He will have got his whole wangling-machine going on the problem of your successor long ago.”
“That’s why I am relying on you to stop him.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Why me?”
“Well—damn it all, Feverstone, it was you who first put the idea into his head.”
“Do you know,” said Feverstone, helping himself to a muffin, “I find your style of conversation rather difficult. You will come up for re-election in a few months. The College may decide to re-elect you; or, of course, it may not. As far as I can make out, you are at present attempting to canvass my vote in advance. To which the proper answer is the one I now give—go to hell!”
“You know perfectly well that there was no doubt about my re-election until you spoke a word in Curry’s ear.”
Feverstone eyed the muffin critically. “You make me rather tired,” he said. “If you don’t know how to steer your own course in a place like Bracton, why come and pester me? I’m not a bucking nurse. And for your own good I would advise you in talking to people here to adopt a more agreeable manner than you are using now. Otherwise your life may be, in the famous words, ‘nasty, poor, brutish, and short!’”
“Short?” said Mark. “Is that a threat? Do you mean my life at Bracton or at the N.I.C.E.?”
“I shouldn’t stress the distinction too much if I were you,” said Feverstone.
“I shall remember that,” said Mark, rising from his chair. As he made to move away he could not help turning to this smiling man once again and saying, “It was you who brought me here. I thought you at least were my friend.”
“Incurable romantic!” said Lord Feverstone, deftly extending his mouth to an even wider grin and popping the muffin into it entire.
And so Mark knew that if he lost the Belbury job he would lose his Fellowship at Bracton as well.
III
During these days Jane spent as little time as possible in the flat and kept herself awake reading in bed, as long as she could, each night. Sleep had become her enemy. In the daytime she kept on going to Edgestow—nominally in the attempt to find another “woman who would come in twice a week” instead of Mrs. Maggs. On one of these occasions she was delighted to find herself suddenly addressed by Camilla Denniston. Camilla had just stepped out of a car and next moment she introduced a tall dark man as her husband. Jane saw at once that both the Dennistons were the sort of people she liked. She knew that Mr. Denniston had once been a friend of Mark’s but she had never met him; and her first thought was to wonder, as she had wondered before, why Mark’s present friends were so inferior to those he once had. Carey and Wadsden and the Taylors, who had all been members of the set in which she first got to know him, had been nicer than Curry and Busby, not to mention the Feverstone man—and this Mr. Denniston was obviously very much nicer indeed.
“We were just coming to see you,” said Camilla. “Look here, we have lunch with us. Let’s drive you up to the woods beyond Sandown and all feed together in the car. There’s lots to talk about.”
“Or what about your coming to the flat and lunching with me?” said Jane, inwardly wondering how she could manage this. “It’s hardly a day for picnicking.”
“That only means extra washing-up for you,” said Camilla. “Had we better go somewhere in town, Arthur?—if Mrs. Studdock thinks it’s too cold and foggy.”
“A restaurant would hardly do, Mrs. Studdock,” said Denniston, “we want to be private.” The “we” obviously meant “we three” and established at once a pleasant, business-like unity between them. “As well,” he continued. “Don’t you like a rather foggy day in a wood in autumn? You’ll find we shall be perfectly warm sitting in the car.”
Jane said she’d never heard of anyone liking fogs before but she didn’t mind trying. All three got in.
“That’s why Camilla and I got married,” said Denniston as they drove off. “We both like Weather. Not this or that kind of weather, but just Weather. It’s a useful taste if one lives in England.”
“How ever did you learn to do that, Mr. Denniston?” said Jane. “I don’t think I should ever learn to like rain and snow.”
“It’s the other way round,” said Denniston. “Everyone begins as a child by liking weather. You learn the art of disliking it as you grow up. Haven’t you ever noticed it on a snowy day? The grown-ups are all going about with long faces, but look at the children—and the dogs! They know what snow’s made for.”
“I’m sure I hated wet days as a child,” said Jane.
“That’s because the grown-ups kept you in,” said Camilla. “Any child loves rain if it’s allowed to go out and paddle about in it.”
Presently they left the unfenced road beyond Sandown and went bumping across grass and among trees and finally came to rest in a sort of little grassy bay with a fir thicket on one side and a group of beeches on the other. There were wet cobwebs and a rich autumnal smell all round them. Then all three sat together in the back of the car, and there was some unstrapping of baskets, and then sandwiches and a little flask of sherry and finally hot coffee and cigarettes. Jane was beginning to enjoy herself.
“Now!” said Camilla.
“Well,” said Denniston, “I suppose I’d better begin. You know, of course, where we’ve come from, Mrs. Studdock?”
“From Miss Ironwood’s,” said Jane.
“Well, from the