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little as she spoke〃do you know that there's a woman here who has had
three children in thirty…one months？〃
〃Really；〃 said Denis； making rapid mental calculations。
〃It's appalling。 I've been telling her about the Malthusian League。
One really ought。。。〃
But a sudden violent renewal of the metallic yelling announced the
fact that somebody had won the race。 Mary became once more the centre
of a dangerous vortex。 It was time； Denis thought； to move on； he might
be asked to do something if he stayed too long。
He turned back towards the canvas village。 The thought of tea was
making itself insistent in his mind。 Tea； tea； tea。 But the tea…tent was
horribly thronged。 Anne； with an unusual expression of grimness on her
flushed face； was furiously working the handle of the urn； the brown
liquid spurted incessantly into the proffered cups。 Portentous； in the
farther corner of the tent； Priscilla； in her royal toque； was encouraging the
villagers。 In a momentary lull Denis could hear her deep； jovial laughter
and her manly voice。 Clearly； he told himself； this was no place for one
who wanted tea。 He stood irresolute at the entrance to the tent。 A
beautiful thought suddenly came to him； if he went back to the house；
went unobtrusively； without being observed； if he tiptoed into the dining…
room and noiselessly opened the little doors of the sideboardah； then！
In the cool recess within he would find bottles and a siphon； a bottle of
crystal gin and a quart of soda water； and then for the cups that inebriate as
well as cheer。。。
A minute later he was walking briskly up the shady yew…tree walk。
Within the house it was deliciously quiet and cool。 Carrying his well…
filled tumbler with care； he went into the library。 There； the glass on the
corner of the table beside him； he settled into a chair with a volume of
Sainte…Beuve。 There was nothing； he found； like a Causerie du Lundi for
settling and soothing the troubled spirits。 That tenuous membrane of his
had been too rudely buffeted by the afternoon's emotions； it required a
rest。
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CHAPTER XXVIII。
Towards sunset the fair itself became quiescent。 It was the hour for
the dancing to begin。 At one side of the village of tents a space had been
roped off。 Acetylene lamps； hung round it on posts； cast a piercing white
light。 In one corner sat the band； and； obedient to its scraping and
blowing； two or three hundred dancers trampled across the dry ground；
wearing away the grass with their booted feet。 Round this patch of all
but daylight； alive with motion and noise； the night seemed preternaturally
dark。 Bars of light reached out into it； and every now and then a lonely
figure or a couple of lovers； interlaced； would cross the bright shaft；
flashing for a moment into visible existence； to disappear again as quickly
and surprisingly as they had come。
Denis stood by the entrance of the enclosure； watching the swaying；
shuffling crowd。 The slow vortex brought the couples round and round
again before him； as though he were passing them in review。 There was
Priscilla； still wearing her queenly toque； still encouraging the villagers
this time by dancing with one of the tenant farmers。 There was Lord
Moleyn； who had stayed on to the disorganised； passoverish meal that
took the place of dinner on this festal day； he one…stepped shamblingly； his
bent knees more precariously wobbly than ever； with a terrified village
beauty。 Mr。 Scogan trotted round with another。 Mary was in the
embrace of a young farmer of heroic proportions； she was looking up at
him； talking； as Denis could see； very seriously。 What about？ he
wondered。 The Malthusian League； perhaps。 Seated in the corner
among the band； Jenny was performing wonders of virtuosity upon the
drums。 Her eyes shone； she smiled to herself。 A whole subterranean
life seemed to be expressing itself in those loud rat…tats； those long rolls
and flourishes of drumming。 Looking at her； Denis ruefully remembered
the red notebook； he wondered what sort of a figure he was cutting now。
But the sight of Anne and Gombauld swimming pastAnne with her eyes
almost shut and sleeping； as it were； on the sustaining wings of movement
and musicdissipated these preoccupations。 Male and female created He
them。。。There they were； Anne and Gombauld； and a hundred couples
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moreall stepping harmoniously together to the old tune of Male and
Female created He them。 But Denis sat apart； he alone lacked his
complementary opposite。 They were all coupled but he； all but he。。。
Somebody touched him on the shoulder and he looked up。 It was
Henry Wimbush。
〃I never showed you our oaken drainpipes；〃 he said。 〃Some of the
ones we dug up are lying quite close to here。 Would you like to come
and see them？〃
Denis got up； and they walked off together into the darkness。 The
music grew fainter behind them。 Some of the higher notes faded out
altogether。 Jenny's drumming and the steady sawing of the bass throbbed
on； tuneless and meaningless in their ears。 Henry Wimbush halted。
〃Here we are；〃 he said； and； taking an electric torch out of his pocket；
he cast a dim beam over two or three blackened sections of tree trunk；
scooped out into the semblance of pipes； which were lying forlornly in a
little depression in the ground。
〃Very interesting；〃 said Denis； with a rather tepid enthusiasm。
They sat down on the grass。 A faint white glare； rising from behind a
belt of trees； indicated the position of the dancing… floor。 The music was
nothing but a muffled rhythmic pulse。
〃I shall be glad；〃 said Henry Wimbush； 〃when this function comes at
last to an end。〃
〃I can believe it。〃
〃I do not know how it is；〃 Mr。 Wimbush continued； 〃but the spectacle
of numbers of my fellow…creatures in a state of agitation moves in me a
certain weariness； rather than any gaiety or excitement。 The fact is； they
don't very much interest me。 They're aren't in my line。 You follow me？
I could never take much interest； for example； in a collection of postage
stamps。 Primitives or seventeenth…century booksyes。 They are my line。
But stamps； no。 I don't know anything about them； they're not my line。
They don't interest me； they give me no emotion。 It's rather the same
with people； I'm afraid。 I'm more at home with these pipes。〃 He jerked
his head sideways towards the hollowed logs。 〃The trouble with the
people and events of the present is that you never know anything about
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them。 What do I know of contemporary politics？ Nothing。 What do I
know of the people I see round about me？ Nothing。 What they think of
me or of anything else in the world； what they will do in five minutes' time；
are things I can't guess at。 For all I know； you may suddenly jump up
and try to murder me in a moment's time。〃
〃Come； come；〃 said Denis。
〃True；〃 Mr。 Wimbush continued； 〃the little I know about your past is
certainly reassuring。 But I know nothing of your present； and neither you
nor I know anything of your future。 It's appalling； in living people； one
is dealing with unknown and unknowable quantities。 One can only hope
to find out anything about them by a long series of the most disagreeable
and boring human contacts； involving a terrible expense of time。 It's the