THE MOMENT she reached the Chadwicks’ it became apparent that Clara Broughton was in an advanced state of intoxication. Mark, her husband, who had found her quiet and gloomy and judged her compara­tively sober at home, cursed himself for having brought her.
    As they left their coats in the tiny dining-room of the cottage he lectured her. ‘You’re not to have more than one drink, Clara. If you do you’ll pass out; you’re half seas over already. Do you hear, Clara? Only one drink.’ He spoke to her as though she were a small, naughty child or a dear and disobedient dog.
    ‘All right, Mark,’ she answered huskily. ‘Just one little drink. Dear Mark.’ She clutched his arm affectionately and then exclaimed in tones of anguish, ‘God, I need that drink.’
    It was hopeless, Mark thought wearily, but if she did pass out it wouldn’t be the first time. People must know what to expect by now and, if they didn’t like it they needn’t ask them—a good many of them didn’t, he reminded himself bitterly.
    ‘Come on, Mark, shtop dithering,’ commanded Clara, ‘You’re going to see your golden girl.’
    Mark sighed. All right, he thought, I do want to see Hilary, though what good it’ll do me, God knows; and he followed his wife down the passage to the long, beamed drawing-room. As usual he forgot the lowness of the door­way and cracked his head on an oak beam. ‘Hell!’ he said loudly and then added, ‘Sorry, Elizabeth,’ as, rubbing his head ruefully, he gazed down at his hostess.
    ‘If you never said anything worse than that, Mark, we’d have no cause to complain,’ said Elizabeth Chad­wick. Charlie Chadwick, who had already provided Clara with a drink, asked, ‘Whisky, Mark?’
    ‘Please. I can’t risk naval concoctions on Friday nights.’ 
    Chadwick handed Mark his drink. ‘Will you draw the Lindens first, tomorrow?’
    ‘Yes, if the wind stays where it is. And then Scrubs Wood, but don’t let on or we’ll have all those idle bastards unboxing their horses at the Lindens. Then if there is a fox lying there it’ll be in East Wintshire before hounds get to the draw. That’s the worst of these small covers.’
    ‘Mum’s the word,’ promised Chadwick, and with a decanter of sherry in one hand and a cocktail shaker in the other, he began a tour of the room, replenishing the glasses of his guests.
    Mark Broughton looked round for his host’s daughter and, when his eyes found her the usual mixture of pain and joy assailed him. She was looking lovely. Mark never saw what women wore or how their hair was done; it was the whole which pleased or failed to please him. He liked them to delight his eye as did a well-proportioned blood horse or a view of unspoiled country. But now he noticed that she was talking in an animated way to that bloody man Vickers. Mark scowled furiously across the room and swallowed the rest of his whisky in an angry gulp. Damn the fellow. Why had Charlie asked him here? Now he needed another drink.
    Clara Broughton was enjoying herself. The room was behaving rather like a ship in a storm, but they always did nowadays; one got used to it, women were so much more adaptable than men. What fun, she thought, a party; a room full of lovely people. ‘Don’t you agree, Steve?’ she asked, as a face she knew emerged from the mist.
    ‘Do I agree with what, Mrs. Broughton?’ asked Stephen Denton.
    ‘That women are more adaptable than men? Oh, Steve, it’s nice to see you,’ she went on without giving him time to reply. ‘You’re looking terribly handsome, such lovely long legs—I always have liked men with long legs. Does your pretty little wife still love you? I’m sure she must.’
    ‘Well I hope so, though I did hear some muttering the other day about married life being spent at the sink. The poor girl’s got to put up with another fifty years of me yet; my family have always been octogenarians. It’s a sobering thought.’ He spoke lightly, but it was com­passion which he felt as he looked down at Clara. You poor silly woman, he thought, you look a worse wreck every time I see you. He observed the ragbag confusion of unmatching and unfashionable garments, the mask of make-up slapped heavily and lopsidedly upon the disin­tegrating face, the tangle of pepper-and-salt hair. You’re only about ten years older than I am, he thought, it’s not very pleasant to think what alcohol must have done to your inside. ‘Here is Sonia,’ he said aloud. ‘Darling, Mrs. Broughton hopes you still appreciate me after eleven months of married life.’
    They stood close together; Stephen tall, lean and fair with blue eyes and a humorous mouth in a good-natured face and Sonia small, pretty and kittenish, a woman who realized that her face and her figure were her fortune and made them her life’s work.
    She said: ‘He’s not as good as he looks, Mrs. Broughton. And it’s no joke being married to a vet—meals at all hours and Steve out half the night—but still, I wouldn’t change him.’
    Despite her animated conversation with Guy Vickers, Hilary Chadwick had seen Mark the moment he entered the room. In fact she had made several attempts to move in his direction but had each time been skilfully forestalled by her companion. Now she had stopped listening to Guy, whose conversation was amusing if rather dependent on personalities, and was considering her desire for escape. Guy was good-looking, rich, horsey, unmarried and thirty-four. If she married Guy she would have marvellous clothes and lovely horses, she would have a fashionable wedding and her parents would be pleased. The human heart, thought Hilary, being the contrary organ it is, refuses to leap to order at the sight of such things. Mine won’t leap for Guy, but when it persists in leaping at the sight of the wholly unattainable can one continue to con­sider its views?
    ‘Guy,’ she said, ‘I’ve thought of an excuse for the Sellocks—that is, if you still want to take me out tomorrow night.’
    ‘You’ll dine with me? Wunderbar!’ he said, and he looked so pleased her heart was touched.
    ‘I shall be a very tedious companion,’ she told him. ‘I’m always half asleep after hunting.’
    Noticing Mark Broughton standing alone by the door, Colonel Holmes-Waterford crossed the room to speak to him. Both men were dark, of equal height and the same age but there their similarity ended. Douglas Holmes-Waterford was of lighter build and wore his well-made clothes with an unobtrusive air; but it was his pallor, his quiet voice and his self command that made him seem the antithesis of Broughton, who managed to look tanned even in January, and whose smile and scowl came and went with his turbulent temper.
    ‘Mark,’ said Holmes-Waterford, ‘stop looking like the spectre at the feast. What’s eating you, as they say?’
    ‘That bloody man Vickers,’ answered Mark promptly. ‘I can’t think why Charlie has to ask him here. He knows he’s been ratting round after a joint mastership because I told him so myself.’
    ‘My dear fellow,’ Douglas Holmes-Waterford was choosing his words with care, ‘it’s perfectly obvious Vickers, who will one day be a millionaire—or as near as no matter—is a catch for any girl. In the circumstances you really can’t blame Charlie for putting his daughter’s prospects before your quarrel.’
    ‘Hell and damn the circumstances! I’d like to wring Vickers’ neck.’
    ‘Oh come, he ‘s not such a bad lad; he rides well and they say that he’s practically a certainty for the next Olym­pics. I’m sure the whole thing’s been grossly exaggerated by Clinkerton. For a start I can’t help feeling that a man like Vickers would fly a bit higher than the West Wintshire if he wanted to take a pack of hounds.’
    ‘We’ll let him fly higher then. Let him take his infernal money to the shires and stop there.’
    ‘Oh really, Mark.’ Holmes-Waterford’s voice was disapproving. I think I’d better go and have a word with him before the whole situation gets out of control. I’ll find out if there is anything behind this conversation with Clinkerton. But you know, as well as I do, that our secretary’s a bit of an old rumourmonger. Probably there’s nothing much to it. I’ve no doubt it was, at the most, a tentative suggestion, and also no doubt that the committee’s only consideration was the chance of saving you expense.’
    ‘When I want a joint master I’ll tell them,’ said Mark Broughton. ‘And if they don’t like the way I run the hunt let them get up and say so at the proper time and place.’

    Only one drink, Clara Broughton thought. Be a good girl, Clara. Poor Mark, he can’t get his golden girl. Go and cut her out, Clara, go and talk to Guy what’s his name. Give poor Mark his chance. There’s a mountain and God knows how many woods between you, but it’s not his fault. Don’t cry, Clara, she told herself as she weaved uncertainly across the room, remember you’re at a party.

   Captain Bewley was making the most of the occasion. Free drinks did not come his way every day and Charlie certainly knew how to knock up cocktails. Pleasantly exhilarated, his cigarette case filled surreptitiously from the box on the pembroke table, all he wanted now was a nice, friendly girl. But, he thought, there was no fun to be had here. Hilary was far too high-minded, Antonia Brockenhurst was the most undersexed female in the county, and that pretty little cat Sonia Denton was still jealously guarded by Steve. There was only Clara. He’d go and talk to Clara, he decided. Dipso she might be, but she was still worth two of all the rest. Vickers was looking at her disdainfully, but he only saw a sodden wreck; he hadn’t known her five years ago. She’d never been a pretty little bit like Sonia; too much character for that, but God, she’d been attractive and good fun. There’d been no one to touch Clara in Wintshire.
    ‘Birds of a feather, Clara, birds of a feather,’ he said, breaking in on the confused conversation she was having with Vickers.
    ‘Oh, Bob darling, how lovely. Dear Bob, such fun. You’re so wicked; you always bring out the worst in me.’
    ‘Come and sit in a corner,’ said Bewley. ‘A dark corner, and we’ll get drunk.’

    Sonia Denton was careful to keep a group of people between her and Guy Vickers. She hoped he would have the sense to keep away from her; but you couldn’t trust Guy, a few drinks and he threw discretion to the winds. She didn’t want another ugly scene; it had been a terrible shock to discover that good-natured, easygoing Steve could behave like that, could say such dreadful things. She loved Steve, but one couldn’t help wondering what life would have been like if one had met Guy first. It was like hats, thought Sonia, as soon as you bought one you had to avoid looking in shop windows in case you saw another you liked better. Once you were married you ought to avoid parties, they were only shop windows for human relationships. How clearly I think, I’m quite intelligent really, she decided. People don’t realize it, they think that I’m just decorative, but there’s no need to look a mess because you’ve got brains.

    Elizabeth Chadwick, who, with her beautiful complexion, curling grey hair and enormous brown eyes, did not look old enough to have a daughter of twenty-seven, was listening with half an ear to Antonia Brockenhurst and wondering why they had asked her. Thank goodness Hilary’s not as horsey as this, she thought, as Wednesday’s run was retold fence by fence. She looked for her daughter across the room and saw her talking to Mark. Thank God Hilary’s sensible, she thought, trying to stifle her misgivings as she saw the expression on Mark’s face . . . Guy was a nice boy, a little spoiled, perhaps, but you can’t have everything in life. If Hilary married him she wouldn’t have this losing battle against poverty, wouldn’t have to divide her time between the sink and the washing machine like so many young wives nowadays. If only, Elizabeth said to herself, she doesn’t do anything silly ­this maddening quarrel that Mark’s picking with Guy . . .

    Mark looked down at Hilary and didn’t speak. Hilary smiled. ‘Well, Master,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re going to be in a better mood tomorrow than you were on Tuesday. I never heard such cursing; your vocabulary’s growing.’
    ‘Bastards,’ said Mark without animosity. ‘They gal­loped slap over the line. How they expect me to show sport when they override my hounds—but it’s always the same when your father’s not out.’ He was looking at Hilary and his mind was not on his words. Hilary, who knew that, as always, some sort of stratosphere around Mark had opened and let her in, knew also that she didn’t have to talk. But now nervousness drove her on.
    ‘Scent ought to be good. We always find at Scrubs— mind you engineer a few checks; I don’t want too good a day—I’m riding one of Bob’s youngsters.’
    ‘Why doesn’t he ride the thing himself? Don’t you go breaking your neck, Hilary. Bob’s not worth it.’
    ‘Bob’s riding an even greener one. The one I’m having—the bay gelding—is supposed to be a prospective three‑day-event horse. Very prospective at the moment, I’m afraid. Bob has the oddest ideas about dressage.’ She knew Mark wasn’t listening and suddenly he interrupted her.
    ‘I hate these damn parties. You can’t hear yourself think. I must find Clara. See you tomorrow, Hilary.’
    Left alone, Hilary thought, There you are, my girl, there’s no future in it. He took Clara for better or for worse and he means to stick to his bargain. He won’t have an affair with you because he’s friends with your parents, and the whole thing’s a hellish muddle. This, she reminded herself, is what comes of letting the heart rule the head. Better go back and talk to Guy.
    Mark found his wife enjoying her conversation with Bob Bewley.
    ‘Too early, darling. Such a lovely party—haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years and years,’ she pro­tested tearfully.
    ‘It’s half past seven,’ her husband pointed out pati­ently. ‘Nan’s out and the children are cooking the supper. We shall catch it if we’re late.’
    ‘Mark loves the children, do anything for them, Mark would,’ Clara told Bob.
    ‘Bob loves the ladies, much better idea,’ said Bob, and they both began to giggle drunkenly.
    Mark persuaded his wife to leave at last and, taking an abrupt farewell of the Chadwicks, hurried her out to the car.
    ‘Clara’s a good girl,’ she told him with pride. ‘Only one drink. You can’t say a person’s a drunk who only has one drink. Jolly abstem, abstem—well, you know what I mean.’
    ‘I know,’ said Mark with a sigh. ‘But God knows what you put away beforehand.’
    In the Chadwicks’ drawing-room everyone drew a little closer together.
    ‘What a dreadful sight she is,’ said Sonia Denton. ‘I don’t think he ought to take her about; she ought to be in a home. It’s disgusting really, she was swaying about all over the place. I thought she’d fall down at any minute. She slopped her drink all over you, didn’t she, Colonel?’      
    ‘Nearly, but not quite,’ answered Douglas Holmes-Waterford. ‘Fortunately I was able to avert disaster.’
    ‘She’s been in a home,’ Antonia Brockenhurst told Sonia. ‘About three times, I think, but it didn’t do any
good; she always begins again. She won’t make the effort; she’s just a weak character. I wonder what made her start.’
    ‘A good servant and a bad master,’ said Commander Chadwick, trying to turn the conversation to more impersonal channels.
    Guy Vickers ignored his host’s hint. ‘I should think Broughton’s dam’ difficult to live with,’ he said.
    ‘No, no, you’ve got him entirely wrong,’ objected Douglas Holmes-Waterford. ‘Mark’s one of my oldest friends—we were at school together. He’s going through a very difficult time at present. Knowing the circum­stances as I do, one can hardly blame the poor fellow for being a bit strung up.’
    ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ answered Vickers carelessly. But the Colonel had already turned away to say goodbye to his hosts.
    ‘Love to Alicia,’ said Elizabeth Chadwick. ‘We’re so sorry she couldn’t come.’

  
 
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