“Of course you Englishmen are all the same about your homes,” she said, her voice becoming louder and louder, “you depreciate them so as not to seem proud. Isn’t there a minstrels’ gallery at Manderley, and some very valuable portraits?” She turned to me by way of explanation. “Mr. de Winter is so modest he won’t admit to it, but I believe that lovely home of his has been in his family’s possession since the Conquest. They say that minstrels’ gallery is a gem. I suppose your ancestors often entertained royalty at Manderley, Mr. de Winter?”
This was more than I had hitherto endured, even from her, but the swift lash of his reply was unexpected. “Not since Ethelred,” he said, “the one who was called Unready. In fact, it was while staying with my family that the name was given him. He was invariably late for dinner.”
She deserved it, of course, and I waited for her change of face, but incredible as it may seem his words were lost on her, and I was left to writhe in her stead, feeling like a child that had been smacked.
“Is that really so?” she blundered. “I’d no idea. My history is very shaky and the kings of England always muddled me. How interesting, though. I must write and tell my daughter; she’s a great scholar.”
There was a pause, and I felt the color flood into my face. I was too young, that was the trouble. Had I been older I would have caught his eye and smiled, her unbelievable behavior making a bond between us; but as it was I was stricken into shame, and endured one of the frequent agonies of youth.
I think he realized my distress, for he leaned forward in his chair and spoke to me, his voice gentle, asking if I would have more coffee, and when I refused and shook my head I felt his eyes were still on me, puzzled, reflective. He was pondering my exact relationship to her, and wondering whether he must bracket us together in futility.
“What do you think of Monte Carlo, or don’t you think of it at all?” he said. This including of me in the conversation found me at my worst, the raw ex-schoolgirl, red-elbowed and lanky-haired, and I said something obvious and idiotic about the place being artificial, but before I could finish my halting sentence Mrs. Van Hopper interrupted.
“She’s spoiled, Mr. de Winter, that’s her trouble. Most girls would give their eyes for the chance of seeing Monte.”
“Wouldn’t that rather defeat the purpose?” he said, smiling.
She shrugged her shoulders, blowing a great cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. I don’t think she understood him for a moment. “I’m faithful to Monte,” she told him; “the English winter gets me down, and my constitution just won’t stand it. What brings you here? You’re not one of the regulars. Are you going to play ‘Chemy,’ or have you brought your golfclubs?”
“I have not made up my mind,” he said; “I came away in rather a hurry.”
His own words must have jolted a memory, for his face clouded again and he frowned very slightly. She babbled on, impervious. “Of course you miss the fogs at Manderley; it’s quite another matter; the west country must be delightful in the spring.” He reached for the ashtray, squashing his cigarette, and I noticed the subtle change in his eyes, the indefinable something that lingered there, momentarily, and I felt I had looked upon something personal to himself with which I had no concern.
“Yes,” he said shortly, “Manderley was looking its best.”
A silence fell upon us during a moment or two, a silence that brought something of discomfort in its train, and stealing a glance at him I was reminded more than ever of my Gentleman Unknown who, cloaked and secret, walked a corridor by night. Mrs. Van Hopper’s voice pierced my dream like an electric bell.
“I suppose you know a crowd of people here, though I must say Monte is very dull this winter. One sees so few well-known faces. The Duke of Middlesex is here in his yacht, but I haven’t been aboard yet.” She never had, to my knowledge. “You know Nell Middlesex of course,” she went on. “What a charmer she is. They always say that second child isn’t his, but I don’t believe it. People will say anything, won’t they, when a woman is attractive? And she is so very lovely. Tell me, is it true the Caxton-Hyslop marriage is not a success?” She ran on, through a tangled fringe of gossip, never seeing that these names were alien to him, they meant nothing, and that as she prattled unaware he grew colder and more silent. Never for a moment did he interrupt or glance at his watch; it was as though he had set himself a standard of behavior, since the original lapse when he had made a fool of her in front of me, and clung to it grimly rather than offend again. It was a page boy in the end who released him, with the news that a dressmaker awaited Mrs. Van Hopper in the suite.