Free Shadows of Ecstasy by Charles Williams Page A

whole.”
    â€œO so far!” Ingram said, and jumped off the table on which he was sitting as Isabel pushed the door right open and came into the room. After a table had been found for the tray, introductions took place; at least Ingram began to say, “O Rosamond”—he stopped suddenly; “By God,” he said, “I don’t know your name.”
    The stranger, a tall magnificent young creature, darkly bronze, bowed to Rosamond: “My name is Inkamasi,” he said. “At least,” he added, a trifle scornfully, Sir Bernard thought, “that is the simplest form of it.”
    â€œQuite,” Roger said brightly. “Miss Murchison, Mr. Travers—hallo, Sir Bernard, I didn’t know you were here—Sir Bernard Travers, the Belly-King.”
    It was a name with which his intimates had teased Sir Bernard in the days of his practice. Philip frowned, forgetting that though the black—if you could strictly call him black—was to him an entirely new and not very desirable acquaintance, the occurrences of the last two hours had put him on terms of intimacy with the Ingrams. Rosamond, rather nervously, kept close to his side. Roger sat down again on top of his large knee-hole writing-table, and took the coffee Philip handed him.
    â€œWe were talking——” he began.
    â€œYes, darling, we heard you,” Isabel said. “Don’t trouble to repeat it just at once. And I hope that doesn’t sound too rude,” she added to the stranger, “only when Roger’s got more than two people to listen to him he always begins to lecture.”
    â€œI ought to have gone long ago,” the other said. “But your husband kept me, talking of poetry and song and the principles of being.”
    â€œBut,” Isabel said, “must you go yet? I mean, will it be wise?” She looked at Roger.
    â€œO quite,” the African said. “The police will have cleared the streets, and I don’t live far away.”
    Roger looked at the clock. “Twenty to ten,” he said, “better wait a little. I didn’t quite get the hang of what you were saying about Homer. I’ll walk round with you presently. Sir Bernard’ll be interested in Homer; he had a line from him on the title-page of his book, opposite the peculiarly loathsome diagram that formed the frontispiece.”
    â€œI didn’t even know you’d looked so far into it,” Sir Bernard said.
    â€œI generally give the title-page a fair chance,” Roger said. “One can’t always judge books merely by the cover. It’s a book on the stomach,” he explained to Inkamasi, “with nine full-page photographs and about fifty more illustrations, each more abominable than the others. When it was published Sir Bernard gave copies to all his friends, because he knew they wouldn’t read it and wanted to hear them explaining why. Brave men cut him afterwards.”
    â€œI should like to see it,” the African voice said. “I did a little medical work before I took up law.”
    â€œWell, it’s buried under Rabelais, Swift, and Ulysses at the moment,” Ingram grinned at Sir Bernard,” but I’ll get it out for you before you come again. ‘Lend it you I will for half a hundred years.’ But not give it. I retain it to keep me humble.”
    â€œI think I’ll go now,” Inkamasi said, putting down his cup. “Thank you, Mrs. Ingràm, for being so kind.”
    â€œO well, if you will,” said Roger. “Coming, Philip?”
    â€œYes, rather,” Philip answered, with a momentary private hope that he wouldn’t have to help defend this black man against even an unpleasant white.
    â€œPhilip,” Rosamond whispered to him, with a soft pounce, “don’t go. I don’t like him.”
    â€œMust,” he whispered back. “Shan’t be long, dearest.”
    â€œWe’ll all