Alec had had nothing new to say to Madge. Only the variations had been a
little more elaborate. The thing was as lunatic to him as ever, and it
all came of not stopping in one's own country. Things like that never
happened at his office in Victoria Street or on the Rectory Ground at
Blackheath.
"You can stay on here if you like, but I'm off back," he said. "And
the next time you catch me in France or anywhere else foreign you
can tell me about it. And you can let me know when they're married.
Does that three-eighteen run to-day, or is that another of their
Sundays-and-week-days excepted?"
"The waiter will tell you," said Madge.
"Damn the waiter," said Alec.
So there were four of us at the Hôtel de la Poste.
I don't know what happened to letters during those early September days
in Dinan. Somebody told me they went on to Paris to be sorted; I only
know that it took an unconscionable time to get an answer from a place I
could have got to and back again in a couple of days. And as three, and
then four days passed, I think I could have written a Guide Book to
Dinan, so familiar with it did I begin to come. And always it was a
laughing, buoyant, affectionate and extraordinarily clever Derry who
conducted us everywhere.
Then, when finally my letter did arrive, it was inexplicit, and I had
either to go to London myself or write again. It was Madge who entreated
me to stay. So I wrote my second letter.
Often we went out into the surrounding country as a change from the
town. Derry never touched a brush, never once mentioned painting.
Occasionally he and Jennie went off together somewhere, but for the most
part we kept together. So far I had to admit that there was no sign of
his young godhead being too much for his simple white-hearted Semele.
She adored him with every particle of herself, from the feet that ran
to meet him to the eyes that continually thanked his face for being what
it was. And never Bayard nor Du Guesclin nor Beaumanoir of them all had
served his lady with a gentler love than young Derwent Rose had for
Jennie Aird.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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