Nigel Bathgate, in the language of his own gossip column, was âdefinitely intriguedâ about his weekend at Frantock. At twenty-five he had outgrown that horror of enthusiasm which is so characteristic of youth-grown-up. He was actually on his way to Frantock, and in âcolossal formâ at the very thought of it. They were doing it in such grandeur, too! He leant back in his first-class corner seat and grinned at his cousin opposite. Odd sort of fellow, old Charles. One never knew much of what went on behind that long dark mask of his. Good-looking bloke, too; women adored him, reflected Nigel, mentally wagging his headâstill flattered and made up to him although he was getting on in yearsâ¦forty-six or -seven.
Charles Rankin returned his young cousinâs ruminative stare with one of those twisted smiles that always reminded Nigel of a faun.
âShanât be long now,â said Rankin. âThe next station is ours. You can see the beginnings of Frantock over there to the left.â
Nigel stared across the patchwork landscape of little fields and hillocks to where a naked wood, fast, fast asleep in its wintry solitude, half hid the warmth of old brick.
âThatâs the house,â said Rankin.
âWho will be there?â asked Nigel, not for the first time. He had heard much of Sir Hubert Handesleyâs âunique and delightfully original house-partiesâ, from a brother journalist who had returned from one of them, if the truth be told, somewhat persistently enthusiastic. Charles Rankin, himself a connoisseur of house-parties, had refused many extremely enviable invitations in favour of these unpretentious weekends. And now, as the result of a dinner-party at old Charlesâs flat, here was Nigel himself about to be initiated. So: âWho will be there?â asked Nigel again.
âThe usual crowd, I suppose,â answered Rankin patiently, âwith the addition of one Doctor Foma Tokareff, who dates, I imagine, from Handesleyâs Embassy days in Petrograd. There will be the Wildes, of courseâthey must be somewhere on the train. Heâs Arthur Wilde, the archaeologist. Marjorie Wilde isâ¦rather attractive, I think. And I suppose Angela North. Youâve met her?â
âSheâs Sir Hubertâs niece, isnât she? Yes, she dined that night at your flat with him.â
âSo she did. If I remember, you seemed to get on rather pleasantly.â
âWill Miss Grant be there?â asked Nigel.
Charles Rankin stood up and struggled into his overcoat.
âRosamund?â he said âYes, sheâll be there.â
âWhat an extraordinarily expressionless voice old Charles has got,â reflected Nigel, as the train clanked into the little station and drew up with a long, steamy sigh.
The upland air struck chill after the stale stuffiness of the train. Rankin led the way out into a sunken country lane, where they found a group of three muffled passengers talking noisily while a chauffeur stowed luggage away into a six-seater Bentley.
âHullo, Rankin,â said a thin, bespectacled man; âthought you must be on the train.â
âI looked out for you at Paddington, Arthur,â rejoined Rankin. âHave you met my cousin, all of you? Nigel Bathgateâ¦Mrs Wildeâ¦Mr Wilde. Rosamund, you have met, havenât you?â
Nigel had made his bow to Rosamund Grant, a tall dark woman whose strange, uncompromising beauty it would be difficult to forget. Of the Hon. Mrs Wilde he could see nothing but a pair of very large blue eyes and the tip of an abbreviated nose. The eyes gave him a brief appraising glance, and a rather high-pitched âfashionableâ voice emerged from behind the enormous fur collar:
âHow do you do? Are you a relation of Charles? Too shattering for you. Charles, you will have to walk. I hate being steam-laundered even for five minutes.â
âYou can sit on my knee,â said Rankin easily.
Nigel, glancing at him, noticed the peculiar bright boldness of his eyes. He was staring, not at Mrs Wilde, but at Rosamund Grant. It was as though he had said to her: âIâm enjoying myself: I dare you to disapprove.â
She spoke for the first time, her deep voice in marked contrast to Mrs Wildeâs italicized treble:
âHere comes Angela in the fire-eater,â she said, âso there will be tons of room for everybody.â
âWhat a disappointment!â said Rankin. âMarjorie, we are defeated.â
âNothing,â said Arthur Wilde firmly, âwill persuade me to drive back in that thing with Angela.â