Lydia Lydgate's house was not yet a home. The pretty flowered stuffs for curtains and cushion-covers lay on the sideboard; her books and ornaments had still to be uncrated. But there were flowers, there were rugs that Lydgate well remembered. The windows were open, and the clean air of the hill flowed in. A hundred yards away were the lights of the Residency and, nearer, the shaded glow of Mudd's mansion. Lydgate stood awkwardly while, in an armchair, she drank the raw brandy he had poured for her. She gasped and made a bitter face when she had finished it. "That's better," she said. "But, God, what an evening." The bared flesh at her shoulder glowed.
"Well," said Lydgate, "if you're really all right —"
If he had held a hat in his hand he would have inched it slowly round with embarrassed fingers. Looking down at the carpet he saw a minute hole. He remembered: in Shurga once his abandoned cigarette had been blown down from the ash-tray by the wind of the ceiling-fan. Why had his cigarette been abandoned? He remembered that too: she had said, "Why do you never want to talk to me? Put that silly book down and come over here."
"Yes, I'm really all right," she now said. "But I mightn't have been. I don't think this Bishopspawn man's much good. He shouldn't have left me like that."
"Well," said Lydgate, "I suppose he thought that he had his duty to do."
"Duty? His duty was towards me first." The old Lydia, She said, "And now I suppose you've got your duty to do. I suppose your little black girl is waiting for you. And, of course, the black and the white and the khaki offspring."
"One white," said Lydgate, "One off-white. I don't know about the third; that's not mine."
"Poor old Frank. You never do very well for yourself, do you?"
"Oh, I don't do too badly."
"What do you mean," said Lydia, tucking her legs under, as for a good chat, "you don't know about the third?"
"I've not seen it. I've not seen any of them for months. And, what's more, if you're really interested —"
"Oh, I am."
"— they're not coming back. I don't particularly want them back."
"What I'd like now," said Lydia, "is something a bit longer." She held out her brandy glass to Lydgate. "Could you mix me a whisky ginger ale? I'm still a bit shaky."
"With pleasure."
"Really with pleasure?"
"If you like." Lydgate went to the drink trolley for whisky. Knowing one of the hill-houses, he knew them all. Sure feet took him to the kitchen, the refrigerator, the ginger ale. Opening the cool white door he saw tinned beer. That would be for Mudd; Mudd always drank tinned beer. He mixed the fizzing drink and took it to Lydia.
"Does Mudd come here often?" he asked.
"Oh, he pops in, pops out again. What are you going to have?"
"I'd really better be going."
"Oh, don't be a fool, Frank. You know you've nothing to go for. No luscious little black girl, no Starkie children."
"No." It was hard to keep his eyes off that rent in the shoulder of her dress. He could, if he wished, rend it still further. Marital rights. "I'll have a drop of something," he said. "Brandy and water."
"Now you'll have to walk all that way back to the fridge. You are a fool."
Lydgate walked down the long living-room, through the ample dining-alcove, to the kitchen again. Opening the refrigerator for water, he thought he would not have diluted brandy after all; he would have a tin of beer. He went back to Lydia with a frothing glass.
"Mud in your eye," he said.
"Oh, Frank, what a silly joke. Now, sit down and tell me about your little abo girl. Why won't you have her back?"
"One gets tired. I don't think I really care much for her. And it's quite certain she doesn't care much for me." He sat down, very deliberately, on the edge of an armchair.
"What gives you this mysterious power over women?"
She drank some of her whisky ginger ale, eyeing him.
"You're a good deal greyer," she said. "But still not bald."
"I've had five teeth out since we" — He was going to say 'parted'; he said instead — "last saw each other."
"I've still got them all," said Lydia. "For that matter," she said stretching, surveying herself from rent in shoulder to bare curling toes, "I've still got it all." She smiled at Lydgate, not without complacency. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"I never said," said Lydgate carefully, "at any time, as far as I remember, that you didn't have your full endowment of physical charms." And then he thought, seeing the events of the evening click into place, 'There's going to be a hell of a row tomorrow.'
"Very nicely put," said Lydia. "A bit too nicely, a bit too pedantically worded. There was a time when you were flatteringly incoherent."
"Why wouldn't you divorce me?" asked Lydgate, twirling his glass round and round, like a hat.
"Wouldn't I? Won't I? I haven't really thought much about it. There was so much else to think about."
"The gay night-life of Sydney, you mean? The big queue of admirers?" Lydgate drained his glass and, unexpectedly, was thirsty for more. "May I?" he asked.
"You may. Harry Mudd will be quite surprised, won't he, when he finds out how many tastes you have in common. Mix me another, will you?" Lydgate went again to the refrigerator. When he returned with the drinks he fancied that the rent in the shoulder of her dress was deeper. But that might just be his imagination.
"And how else have you changed?" asked Lydia. "Are you less selfish?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Lydgate harshly.
"As I remember, it was you who wanted everything."
"I wanted what I'd a right to want. Love, consideration — the usual things. That's what one gets married for."
"I did my best," said Lydgate. "I gave what I could. Let's not go through all that again." He drained his chill gassy beer. "I'd better go now," he said. "I've got to be up early."
"It isn't late," said Lydia. "But, isn't that just typical of you? You only think of yourself. You're not the only one who has to get up early. And," she added, "think of what I've been through. Leaving me here all nervy, all shaky. You've no sense of responsibility." She placed her ear to the bared shoulder, as if to hear what ticked inside, pouting the while.
"I've no responsibility to you any more," said Lydgate. "That's somebody else's job now."
"You're still my husband." Lydgate felt a quick throb in his chest, a click in his throat, a metallic thirst. He had a swift reeling image of all the women in the world saying, pouting, "You're my husband." To him. From the very bottom of his stomach nearly came up the reply, in gas and froth, "But I'm not." Whose husband was he? He said: "I'll have one for the road."
"A lion-frightener we used to call it."
"Yes. And you?"
"It can hardly be one for the road for me, can it?"
"Why the hell did you come here, Lydia?" he asked viciously. "What do you want?"
"I quite like Dunia. It's much more civilised than Sydney."
"What's Mudd after? Is he after you? Is it as simple as that?"
"Why should you be interested? I'm not your responsibility. Gosh," she said, closing her eyes and leaning back to show a full throat with a tiny mole on it, "I'm tired. It was quite an evening."
"But if Mudd's after you, why should he be so keen on our being together again? That's what I don't understand."
"Is he? Don't you?" Her eyes were still closed. "Perhaps he's another who doesn't like too much responsibility."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, shut up. I'm tired. Put me to bed."
"What?" said Lydgate.
"Oh, all right, I'll put myself to bed." And, standing suddenly, eyes still closed, she began to pull off her dress. It was her old way: scattering the floor with clothes for the servant to pick up in the morning, walking then proudly into the bedroom naked. Suddenly, in a sort of panic, Lydgate saw that that would be the end of the tear in the shoulder. What a frightful waste. Soon he discovered that she was not really so tired as she said.
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