Harris. Harris Thorne. Howard didn’t seem able to get that name out of his head, for several reasons. First, he’d married his daughter. Second, he was rich, very rich… too rich. His parents had left him a comfortable inheritance and, at thirty-eight years of age, he was at the head of a successful bicycle manufacturing firm in Coventry, which he directed with competence and authority. His powerful voice, thunderous outbursts of laughter and generosity gained sympathy from all who knew him. Despite his tendency to impose his views, it never seemed to occur to anyone to contradict him, at least openly.
His brother Brian, discreet and silent, didn’t resemble him at all. He lived as a recluse, with a couple of servants, in a manor not far from Cheltenham. He spent most of his time shut up in his room, only leaving it for the occasional country walk, where he wandered aimlessly with his head down and a faraway look in his eye. Naturally, the upkeep of the property fell to Harris, the only one capable of assuming the expense. Since the beginning of the year, the manor had undergone extensive renovation: Harris had decided to make it his principal residence and had invited Francis and Paula and their parents to move in with Sarah and himself. Paula, who had failed to adapt to the hectic rhythm of London, jumped at the idea of a rural life. Francis, who, thanks to his generous brother-in-law had an interesting job with good prospects of advancement, was just as enthusiastic.
As for Howard Hilton, it was, paradoxically, just such a prospect which tormented him. In addition, Harris had made it clear to his parents-in-law that they would be able to lead a peaceful existence, without worries of any sort. And, as a balm to their dignity, he’d asked if they’d help him supervise the staff — in exchange for a decent remuneration, of course.
‘You’re right, of course,’ Howard Hilton said to his wife in a mournful voice. ‘Harris is an irreproachable fellow.’
‘I don’t understand you, Howard, I really don’t. Our situation leaves us no choice. Why hesitate?’
‘I could say it’s because we’d no longer have our peaceful home or our independence, but that’s not it.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Sarah came to see us the other day. How did you find her?’
‘Well, she did seem a bit… But you know as well as I do, she’s always been a very nervous child.’
‘I know, but I’ve never seen her so tense. Didn’t she say anything to you? I saw you in the garden and you seemed to be talking about a serious matter….’
Mrs. Hilton put down the piece of cake which she’d been nibbling.
‘Yes and no. She told me she hadn’t been feeling well recently and that Harris… Well, you know she has a difficult character and the first months of marriage aren’t always plain sailing. She talked to me about Harris, the long hours he puts in, his habits and his temperament… They’ve had a few stormy rows. But nothing to get unduly alarmed about: perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you stamped on mama’s hat because you were furious about—.’
‘That’s not the point. I have a feeling that Sarah has absolutely no desire to live an isolated life in the Cotswolds with, by way of company, Harris’s brother who doesn’t seem quite right in the head.’
‘How can you say that? You’ve only seen him once, at her marriage.’
‘That’s quite enough to form an impression. The two brothers are nothing like each other. In appearance, at least. There are a few points in common. Harris is also capable of—.’
‘Howard!’ protested Mrs. Hilton. ‘How can you talk like that? I’d like you to explain once and for all what you’ve got against him. Incidentally, when Sarah first introduced us, I noticed you didn’t seem very enthusiastic.’
Mr. Hilton hesitated.
‘Listen, Dorothy, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not the age difference, in any case. Even though fifteen years… No. Incompatible personalities, perhaps. Sarah’s not in the habit of allowing herself to be walked on, and obviously neither is he. He’s more likely to crush other people.’ A mischievous gleam appeared in his eye. ‘While we’re on the subject, my dear, why don’t you tell me what you’ve got against Paula, that sweet young thing? You’ve never said anything, but I know there’s something about her you absolutely can’t stand. Isn’t it true?’
‘What an idea, Howard… No, I’ve nothing at all against her, even though… At times she gives the impression of being — how to put it? — light-headed? Frivolous?’
‘Light-headed or frivolous?’ exclaimed Howard. ‘Paula? Good grief, Dorothy, you’re full of surprises. She just likes a good laugh, that’s all. I’ve always suspected you’d consider any wife of your son, whoever she may be, as some sort of thief.’
‘Which just goes to show how little you know me,’ sniffed Mrs. Hilton, in the tone of an outraged queen.
Howard Hilton picked up the newspaper, then threw it down in frustration and lit a cigarette.
