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eighteenth…century picturesfamily portraits； meticulous animal paintings。
What could one reconstruct from such data？ There was much of Henry
Wimbush in the long gallery and the library； something of Anne； perhaps；
in the morning…room。 That was all。 Among the accumulations of ten
generations the living had left but few traces。
Lying on the table in the morning…room he saw his own book of poems。
What tact！ He picked it up and opened it。 It was what the reviewers
call 〃a slim volume。〃 He read at hazard：
〃。。。But silence and the topless dark Vault in the lights of Luna Park；
And Blackpool from the nightly gloom Hollows a bright tumultuous
tomb。〃
He put it down again； shook his head； and sighed。 〃What genius I
had then！〃 he reflected； echoing the aged Swift。 It was nearly six months
since the book had been published； he was glad to think he would never
write anything of the same sort again。 Who could have been reading it；
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he wondered？ Anne； perhaps； he liked to think so。 Perhaps； too； she
had at last recognised herself in the Hamadryad of the poplar sapling； the
slim Hamadryad whose movements were like the swaying of a young tree
in the wind。 〃The Woman who was a Tree〃 was what he had called the
poem。 He had given her the book when it came out； hoping that the
poem would tell her what he hadn't dared to say。 She had never referred
to it。
He shut his eyes and saw a vision of her in a red velvet cloak； swaying
into the little restaurant where they sometimes dined together in London
three quarters of an hour late； and he at his table； haggard with anxiety；
irritation； hunger。 Oh； she was damnable！
It occurred to him that perhaps his hostess might be in her boudoir。 It
was a possibility； he would go and see。 Mrs。 Wimbush's boudoir was in
the central tower on the garden front。 A little staircase cork…screwed up to
it from the hall。 Denis mounted； tapped at the door。 〃Come in。〃 Ah；
she was there； he had rather hoped she wouldn't be。 He opened the door。
Priscilla Wimbush was lying on the sofa。 A blotting…pad rested on
her knees and she was thoughtfully sucking the end of a silver pencil。
〃Hullo；〃 she said； looking up。 〃I'd forgotten you were coming。〃
〃Well； here I am； I'm afraid；〃 said Denis deprecatingly。 〃I'm awfully
sorry。〃
Mrs。 Wimbush laughed。 Her voice； her laughter； were deep and
masculine。 Everything about her was manly。 She had a large； square；
middle…aged face； with a massive projecting nose and little greenish eyes；
the whole surmounted by a lofty and elaborate coiffure of a curiously
improbable shade of orange。 Looking at her； Denis always thought of
Wilkie Bard as the cantatrice。
〃That's why I'm going to Sing in op'ra； sing in op'ra； Sing in op…pop…
pop…pop…pop…popera。〃
Today she was wearing a purple silk dress with a high collar and a row
of pearls。 The costume； so richly dowagerish； so suggestive of the Royal
Family； made her look more than ever like something on the Halls。
〃What have you been doing all this time？〃 she asked。 〃Well；〃 said
Denis； and he hesitated； almost voluptuously。 He had a tremendously
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amusing account of London and its doings all ripe and ready in his mind。
It would be a pleasure to give it utterance。 〃To begin with；〃 he said。。。
But he was too late。 Mrs。 Wimbush's question had been what the
grammarians call rhetorical； it asked for no answer。 It was a little
conversational flourish； a gambit in the polite game。
〃You find me busy at my horoscopes；〃 she said； without even being
aware that she had interrupted him。
A little pained； Denis decided to reserve his story for more receptive
ears。 He contented himself； by way of revenge； with saying 〃Oh？〃 rather
icily。
〃Did I tell you how I won four hundred on the Grand National this
year？〃 〃Yes；〃 he replied； still frigid and mono…syllabic。 She must have
told him at least six times。
〃Wonderful； isn't it？ Everything is in the Stars。 In the Old Days；
before I had the Stars to help me； I used to lose thousands。 Now〃she
paused an instant〃well； look at that four hundred on the Grand National。
That's the Stars。〃
Denis would have liked to hear more about the Old Days。 But he was
too discreet and； still more； too shy to ask。 There had been something of
a bust up； that was all he knew。 Old Priscillanot so old then； of course；
and sprightlierhad lost a great deal of money； dropped it in handfuls and
hatfuls on every race…course in the country。 She had gambled too。 The
number of thousands varied in the different legends； but all put it high。
Henry Wimbush was forced to sell some of his Primitivesa Taddeo da
Poggibonsi； an Amico di Taddeo； and four or five nameless Sieneseto the
Americans。 There was a crisis。 For the first time in his life Henry
asserted himself； and with good effect； it seemed。
Priscilla's gay and gadding existence had come to an abrupt end。
Nowadays she spent almost all her time at Crome； cultivating a rather ill…
defined malady。 For consolation she dallied with New Thought and the
Occult。 Her passion for racing still possessed her； and Henry； who was a
kind…hearted fellow at bottom； allowed her forty pounds a month betting
money。 Most of Priscilla's days were spent in casting the horoscopes of
horses； and she invested her money scientifically； as the stars dictated。
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She betted on football too； and had a large notebook in which she
registered the horoscopes of all the players in all the teams of the League。
The process of balancing the horoscopes of two elevens one against the
other was a very delicate and difficult one。 A match between the Spurs
and the Villa entailed a conflict in the heavens so vast and so complicated
that it was not to be wondered at if she sometimes made a mistake about
the outcome。
〃Such a pity you don't believe in these things； Denis； such a pity；〃 said
Mrs。 Wimbush in her deep； distinct voice。
〃I can't say I feel it so。〃
〃Ah； that's because you don't know what it's like to have faith。 You've
no idea how amusing and exciting life becomes when you do believe。
All that happens means something； nothing you do is ever insignificant。
It makes life so jolly； you know。 Here am I at Crome。 Dull as
ditchwater； you'd think； but no； I don't find it so。 I don't regret the Old
Days a bit。 I have the Stars。。。〃 She picked up the sheet of paper that was
lying on the blotting… pad。 〃Inman's horoscope；〃 she explained。 〃（I
thought I'd like to have a little fling on the billiards championship this
autumn。） I have the Infinite to keep in tune with；〃 she waved her hand。
〃And then there's the next world and all the spirits； and one's Aura； and
Mrs。 Eddy and saying you're not ill； and the Christian Mysteries and Mrs。
Besant。 It's all splendid。 One's never dull for a moment。 I can't think
how I used to get on beforein the Old Days。 Pleasurerunning about；
that's all it was； just running about。 Lunch； tea； dinner； theatre； supper
every day。 It was fun； of course； while it lasted。 But there wasn't much
left of it afterwards。 There's rather a good thing about that in Barbecue…
Smith's new book。 Where is it？〃
She sat up and reached for a book that was lying on the little table by
the head of the sofa。
〃Do you know him； by the way？〃 she asked。
〃Who？〃
〃Mr。 Barbecue…Smith。〃
Denis knew of him vagu