Free A Coat of Varnish by C. P. Snow Page A

it was constantly in operation, and listening one couldn’t escape the pressure of his will.
    The strongest impression of all was that Tom Thirkill had a touch, probably more than a touch, of paranoia. It was that which made his tone begin to grind. He felt surrounded by enemies. He was asking for help. Like a good many people who felt persecuted, he might have something to feel persecuted about. It wasn’t an uncommon blend, the naïve demands for support and protection and the ferocious, intense, attacking venom. It was a blend, Humphrey had sometimes thought, which had much appeal for decent good-natured persons, particularly among the young. Not so much as you grew older. You discovered that such natures took but never gave. But Humphrey could understand that Thirkill had a following in the centre of his own party, moderate sensible men who wanted to protect him and at the same time who succumbed to something stronger than charm. Such men gave him hero-worship. They were his power-base in politics, as a parliamentarian could have told Humphrey before now.
    In that tête-à-tête, meal finished, Thirkill hadn’t given up the initiative. As they rose, he rapped out a question as though at random: ‘You’re a friend of Mrs Lefroy’s, so I am told?’
    Humphrey answered with a neutral yes. As they got into the car outside, Thirkill persisted: ‘You’re a close friend of Kate Lefroy’s, I hear? You knew that my daughter works for her.’
    Humphrey again said yes, he did know that.
    Driving up Sloane Street, Thirkill went on: ‘My daughter is having dinner with that Lord Loseby tonight. What does Kate think of him?’
    Humphrey was ready to evade this cross-examination.
    ‘Should you think she’s seen much of him? I do rather doubt it.’
    ‘Kate’s a shrewd woman, isn’t she?’
    Humphrey didn’t reply. Thirkill said: ‘You’d better stop by at my place, I expect you can use another drink, can’t you?’
    It was early, and now that he was prepared Humphrey was curious to see where Thirkill was leading. Yes, he would enjoy a nightcap.
    There were no more questions until they were sitting in Thirkill’s drawing-room. It was one of the high and handsome Eaton Square reception rooms made for nineteenth-century soirées; and it was handsomely furnished. Either Tom Thirkill or his wife (who was living in their country house, so Humphrey had picked up) had taste, a taste not frightened or over-modest. On the walls hung a Matthew Smith, a Samuel Palmer, a Sickert, a picture which looked like a bright and glorious pastiche of Veronese, and (what surprised Humphrey most) a de Kooning.
    Before Humphrey was given a drink, Thirkill had left the room, and was away some minutes. When he came back, he said: ‘The girl’s not in yet.’ Then he went to a cupboard, masked in the panelling, and told Humphrey to come and choose for himself. Thirkill didn’t drink, but his acquaintances did, and they were duly provided for.
    Each of them in deep chairs, Thirkill leaned forward in his demanding posture and said: ‘You haven’t told me yet what Kate Lefroy thinks of that young man.’
    ‘You mean Loseby?’
    ‘Who do you think I mean?’
    ‘I don’t see how she can have much idea, you know. She certainly hasn’t said much to me. Of course, I don’t see her all that often.’
    ‘Don’t you?’ That was attacking, edged with meaning.
    ‘She’s very busy, you realise that, don’t you? Your daughter must have told you.’
    Thirkill had free energy to spare on suspicions over Humphrey and Kate. Maybe Susan had them, too. Humphrey was ready to be non-committal until Thirkill got tired. But Thirkill had a greater imperative.
    ‘I want to hear about the young man Loseby. Is he any good?’
    ‘He’s very engaging.’
    ‘Is he any good for my daughter?’
    ‘How can anyone judge that?’
    ‘Is he a playboy?’ The tone was grinding.
    ‘You ought to ask his friends. He’s extremely pleasant to meet. If you ask me,