A Night of Errors Read Online Free

Swindle’s slumbers, mama. But Oliver, at least, is not being careless. Indeed, he is being very prudent, is he not?’
    ‘I hope he will always be that.’
    There was an awkward pause. Mr Greengrave, although hardened to hovering on the edge of family enigmas, began to wonder when he could take his leave. Between these two ladies not much had passed – but, in what had, more was meant than met the ear. And why did the protracted absence of Sir Oliver abroad mean that he was being very prudent? Was he keeping out of the way of something? What was the difference between a business trip and a trip prompted by business considerations? Why must Sebastian Dromio be placated and assuaged? And why had Lady Dromio, commonly so reticent, allowed herself those mysterious rambling sentences about the past? Why should she have been puzzled for years?
    On all these questions, thought Mr Greengrave, the oracles are dumb. And as for the project of drawing out Miss Dromio – well, that had got nowhere. A blameless and pastoral project, while being at the same time humanly intriguing. Perhaps it might yet be possible.
    Mr Greengrave rose. ‘How unfortunate,’ he said, ‘that I have calls yet to make in the village. But since the afternoon is so fine perhaps Miss Dromio…?’
    ‘Yes, indeed.’ Lucy spoke with decision. ‘I will take the letters. That lawn-mower has made William so sulky that he would be quite certain to forget on purpose. Have you anything more to post, mama?’
    ‘No!’ Lady Dromio uttered the word with unexpected vigour. ‘I think the post is really a dangerous institution. It invites one to rash communications. I have sometimes written letters that I very much wanted to recall.’
    There was no doubt that the old lady was behaving a trifle oddly. Mr Greengrave could see that Lucy, who knew her well, was looking perplexed.
    ‘Yes, to be sure.’ The vicar found himself making random conversation while Lucy departed for the letters. ‘Or at least the penny or twopenny-halfpenny post has destroyed one of the most delightful English literary forms. For who will treat seriously as a work of art something that one simply drops into a red box at the end of a lane? And consider too the speed of transmission. In the days of mail-coaches and packet-boats a letter had time to acquire patina on its journey. When Horace Walpole wrote to his friend Mann in Florence–’
    ‘Of course – how very interesting.’ Lady Dromio as she made this scarcely civil interruption once more fell to flicking the lid of the hot-water jug. ‘But tell me – how long does the airmail take to America?’
    ‘From here in the village? I am afraid I scarcely know. Not more, I should imagine, than two or three days.’
    ‘I wish–’ Lady Dromio checked herself. ‘But here is Lucy and she will be the better of a walk. Recently she has been rather restless, dear child.’
    To Mr Greengrave’s ear the tone of this was not affectionate. At present the two ladies must be living rather a solitary life. Ought he to recommend prayer, some serious and improving book, a tennis party? Might he even venture to suggest an informal dance? And was he justified in making off with Lucy, who was attractive, after rather a perfunctory call upon Lady Dromio, who was difficult? With these questions unresolved, he found himself walking down the drive. And Lucy spoke. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is a really ghastly hole.’
    Mr Greengrave was shocked. ‘Good gracious,’ he said lightly, ‘we all feel like that about Sherris Parva! There should be a law giving us a long holiday at least twice a year.’
    ‘I mean Sherris Hall. Home.’
    ‘I think young people often feel like that about home from time to time.’
    ‘I’m not young. I’m over thirty.’ She turned her head and regarded him sombrely. ‘Intellectually my life is completely futile. Artistically it is null. I do not subserve even the simplest biological purposes.’
    A large part of Mr