Free At Lady Molly's by Anthony Powell Page A

dead.’
    ‘Only that?’
    Widmerpool paused, disappointed by my ignorance, or additionally suspicious; perhaps both. He may have decided that for his purposes I knew at once too much and too litde.
    ‘You realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that Mildred has been used to a lot of her own way—her own way of life, that is. Haycock left her—in fact even encouraged her—so it seems to me—to lead—well—a rather—rather independent sort of life. They were—as one might say—a very modern married couple.’
    ‘Beyond the fact that they lived on the Riviera, I know scarcely anything about them.’
    ‘Haycock had worked very hard all his life. He wanted some relaxation in his later days. That was understandable. They got on quite well so far as I can see.’
    I began to apprehend a little of what Widmerpool was hinting. Mrs. Haycock’s outline became clearer. No doubt she had graduated from an earlier emancipation of slang and cigarettes, to a habit of life with threatening aspects for a future husband.
    ‘Did they have any children?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Widmerpool. ‘They did. Mildred has two children. That does not worry me. Not at all. Glad to start with a family.’
    He said all this so aggressively that I suspected a touch of bravado. Then he paused. I was about to ask the age and sex of the children, when he began to speak hurriedly again, the words tumbling out as if he wanted to finish with this speech as quickly as possible.
    ‘I should not wish to appear backward in display of affection,’ he said, developing an increased speed with every phrase, ‘and, in addition to that, I don’t see why we should delay unduly the state in which we shall spend the rest of our life merely because certain legal and religious formalities take time to arrange. In short, Nicholas, you will, I am sure, agree—more especially as you seem to spend a good deal of your time with artists and film-writers and people of that sort, whose morals are proverbial—that it would be permissible on my part to suppose—once the day of the wedding has been fixed—that we might—occasionally enjoy each other’s company—say, over a week-end—’
    He came to a sudden stop, looking at me rather wildly.
    ‘I don’t see why not.’
    It was impossible to guess what he was going to say next. This was all far from anything for which I had been prepared.
    ‘In fact my fiancee—Mildred, that is—might even expect such a suggestion?’
    ‘Well, yes, from what you say.’
    ‘Might even regard it as usage du monde ?’
    ‘Quite possible.’
    Then Widmerpool sniggered. For some reason I was conscious of embarrassment, even of annoyance. The problem could be treated, as it were, clinically, or humorously; a combination of the two approaches was distasteful. I had the impression that the question of how he should behave worried him more on account of the figure he cut in the eyes of Mrs. Haycock than because his passion could not be curbed. However, to have released from his mind these observations had clearly been a great relief to him. Now he cheered up a little.
    ‘There is a further point,’ he said. ‘As my name is an uncommon one, I take it I should be called upon to provide myself with a sobriquet.’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘In your own case, the difficulty would scarcely arise—so many people being called “Jenkins”.’
    ‘It may surprise you to hear that when I embark on clandestine week-ends, I call myself “Widmerpool”.’
    Widmerpool laughed with reasonable heartiness at that fancy. All the same, the question of what name should cover the identity of Mrs. Haycock and himself when first appearing as husband and wife still worried him.
    ‘But what surname do you think should be employed?’ he asked in a reflective tone, speaking almost to himself.
    ‘“Mr. and Mrs. Smith” would have the merit of such absolute banality that it would almost draw attention to yourselves. Besides, you might be mistaken for the