CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"TheHeightoftheseason,"saidBonamy. ThesunhadalreadyblisteredthepaintonthebacksofthegreenchairsinHydeParkpeeledthebarkofftheplanetreesandturnedtheearthtopowderandtosmoothyellowpebbles.HydeParkwascircled,incessantly,byturningwheels. "Theheightoftheseason,"saidBonamysarcastically. HewassarcasticbecauseofClaraDurrantbecauseJacobhadcomebackfromGreeceverybrownandlean,withhispocketsfullofGreeknotes,whichhepulledoutwhenthechairmancameforpencebecauseJacobwassilent. "Hehasnotsaidawordtoshowthatheisgladtoseeme,"thoughtBonamybitterly. ThemotorcarspassedincessantlyoverthebridgeoftheSerpentinetheupperclasseswalkedupright,orbentthemselvesgracefullyoverthepalingsthelowerclasseslaywiththeirkneescockedup,flatontheirbacksthesheepgrazedonpointedwoodenlegssmallchildrenrandowntheslopinggrass,stretchedtheirarms,andfell. "Veryurbane,"Jacobbroughtout. "Urbane"onthelipsofJacobhadmysteriouslyalltheshapelinessofacharacterwhichBonamythoughtdailymoresublime,devastating,terrificthanever,thoughhewasstill,andperhapswouldbeforever,barbaric,obscure. Whatsuperlatives!Whatadjectives!HowacquitBonamyofsentimentalityofthegrossestsortofbeingtossedlikeacorkonthewavesofhavingnosteadyinsightintocharacterofbeingunsupportedbyreason,andofdrawingnocomfortwhateverfromtheworksoftheclassics? "Theheightofcivilization,"saidJacob. HewasfondofusingLatinwords. Magnanimity,virtue—suchwordswhenJacobusedthemintalkwithBonamymeantthathetookcontrolofthesituationthatBonamywouldplayroundhimlikeanaffectionatespanielandthat(aslikelyasnot)theywouldendbyrollingonthefloor. "AndGreece?"saidBonamy."TheParthenonandallthat?" "There'snoneofthisEuropeanmysticism,"saidJacob. "It'stheatmosphere.Isuppose,"saidBonamy."AndyouwenttoConstantinople?" "Yes,"saidJacob. Bonamypaused,movedapebblethendartedinwiththerapidityandcertaintyofalizard'stongue. "Youareinlove!"heexclaimed. Jacobblushed. Thesharpestofknivesnevercutsodeep. Asforresponding,ortakingtheleastaccountofit,Jacobstaredstraightaheadofhim,fixed,monolithic—oh,verybeautiful!—likeaBritishAdmiral,exclaimedBonamyinarage,risingfromhisseatandwalkingoffwaitingforsomesoundnonecametooproudtolookbackwalkingquickerandquickeruntilhefoundhimselfgazingintomotorcarsandcursingwomen.Wherewastheprettywoman'sface?Clara's—Fanny's—Florinda's?Whowastheprettylittlecreature? NotClaraDurrant. TheAberdeenterriermustbeexercised,andasMr.Bowleywasgoingthatverymoment—wouldlikenothingbetterthanawalk—theywenttogether,ClaraandkindlittleBowley—BowleywhohadroomsintheAlbany,Bowleywhowroteletterstothe"Times"inajocularveinaboutforeignhotelsandtheAuroraBorealis—BowleywholikedyoungpeopleandwalkeddownPiccadillywithhisrightarmrestingonthebossofhisback. "Littledemon!"criedClara,andattachedTroytohischain. Bowleyanticipated—hopedfor—aconfidence.Devotedtohermother,Clarasometimesfeltheralittle,well,hermotherwassosureofherselfthatshecouldnotunderstandotherpeoplebeing—being—"asludicrousasIam,"Clarajerkedout(thedogtuggingherforwards).AndBowleythoughtshelookedlikeahuntressandturnedoverinhismindwhichitshouldbe—somepalevirginwithaslipofthemooninherhair,whichwasaflightforBowley. Thecolourwasinhercheeks.Tohavespokenoutrightabouthermother—still,itwasonlytoMr.Bowley,wholovedher,aseverybodymustbuttospeakwasunnaturaltoher,yetitwasawfultofeel,asshehaddoneallday,thatsheMUSTtellsomeone. "Waittillwecrosstheroad,"shesaidtothedog,bendingdown. Happilyshehadrecoveredbythattime. "ShethinkssomuchaboutEngland,"shesaid."Sheissoanxious—-" Bowleywasdefraudedasusual.Claraneverconfidedinanyone. "Whydon'ttheyoungpeoplesettleit,eh?"hewantedtoask."What'sallthisaboutEngland?"—aquestionpoorClaracould