‘As Theoreticus says in his diatribe against the use of the vernacular,’ whispered Flannelcat, who had waited for a long while for the moment when by coincidence he would both have the courage to say something and have something to say.
‘Well, what did the old bleeder say?’ said Opus Fluke.
But no one was interested and Flannelcat knew that his opportunity was gone, for several voices broke in and cut across his nervous reply.
‘Tell me, Cutflower, is the Head still staring at her and why can’t you pass the wine, by the clay of which we’re made, it’s given me the thirst of cactusland,’ said Perch-Prism, his flat nose turned to the ceiling. ‘But for my breeding I’d turn round and see for myself.’
‘Not a twitch,’ said Cutflower. ‘Statues, la! Most uncanny.’
‘Once upon a time,’ broke in the mournful voice of Flannelcat, ‘I used to collect butterflies. It was long ago – in a swallow country full of dry river-beds. Well, one damp afternoon when …’
‘Another time, Flannelcat,’ said Cutflower. ‘You may sit down.’
Flannelcat, saddened, moved away from the group in search of a chair.
Meanwhile Bellgrove had been savouring love’s rare aperitif, the ageless language of the eyes.
Pulling himself together with the air of one who is master of every situation, he swept his gown across one shoulder as though it were a toga and stepping back, surveyed the spread-eagled figure at their feet.
In stepping back, however, he had all but trodden upon Doctor Prunesquallor’s feet and would have done so but for the agile side-step of his host.
The Doctor had been out of the room for a few minutes and had only just been told of the immobile figure on the floor. He was about to have examined the body when Bellgrove had taken his backward step, and now he was delayed still further by the sound of Bellgrove’s voice.
‘My dearest lady,’ said the old lion-headed man, who had begun to repeat himself, ‘warmth is everything. Yet no … not everything … but a good deal. That you should be caused embarrassment by one of my staff, shall I say one of my colleagues, yea, for so he is, shall always be to me like coals of fire. And why? Because, dearest lady, it was for me to have groomed him, to have schooled him in the niceties or more simply, dammit, to have left him behind. And that is what I must do now. I must have him removed,’ and he lifted his voice.
‘Gentlemen,’ he cried. ‘I shall be glad if two of you would remove your colleague and return with him to his quarters. Perhaps Professors … Flannelcat …’
‘But no! but no! I will not have it!’
It was Irma’s voice. She took a step forward and brought her hands up to her long chin where she interlocked her fingers.
‘Mr Headmaster,’ she whispered, ‘I have heard what you have had to say. And it was splendid. I said splendid. When you spoke of “warmth”, I understood. I, a mere woman, I said a
‘But when, Mr Headmaster, I found you were, in spite of your belief, determined to have this gentleman removed’ (she glanced down at the spread-eagled figure at her feet) ‘then I knew it was for me, as your hostess, to ask you, as my guest, to think again. I would not have it said, sir, that one of your staff was shamed in my salon – that he was taken away. Let him be put in a chair in a dim corner. Let him be given wine and pasties, whatever he chooses, and when he is well enough, let him join his friends. He has honoured me, I say he has honoured me …’
It was then that she saw her brother. In a moment she was at his side. ‘O Alfred, I am right, aren’t I? Warmth is everything, isn’t it?’
Prunesquallor gazed at his sister’s twitching face. It was naked with anxiety, naked with excitement and also, to make her expression almost too subtle for credulity, it was naked with the lucence of love’s dawn. Pray God it is not a false one, thought Prunesquallor. It would kill her. For a moment, the conception of how much simpler life would be
‘Whether warmth is everything or not, my very dear sister, it is nevertheless a comforting and a cosy thing to have about – although mark you, it can be very stuffy, by all that’s oxidized, so it can, but Irma, my sweet one – let that be as it may – for as a physician it has struck me that it is about time that something were done for the warrior at your feet; we must see to him, mustn’t we, we must see to him, eh, Mr Bellgrove? By all that’s sacred to my weird profession, we most certainly must …’
‘But he’s not to leave the room, Alfred – he’s not to leave the room. He’s our
Bellgrove broke in before the Doctor could reply.
‘You have humbled me, lady,’ he said simply, and bowed his lion’s head.
‘And you,’ whispered Irma, a deep blush raddling her neck, ‘have elevated me.’
