Have His Carcase

A message from the waiter informed him that the ladies had adjourned into the dance-lounge. Henry growled, but was relieved to find that his mother was, after all, not dancing. She was watching Harriet who, clad in claret-colour was revolving smoothly in the practised arm of Antoine. Wimsey politely begged Mrs Weldon to favour him, but she shook her head.

‘I couldn’t. Not so soon. In fact, never again — now that Paul—. But I begged Miss Vane to enjoy herself and not mind about me. It is such a delight to watch her looking so happy’

Wimsey sat down and did his best to enjoy the spectacle of Harriet’s happiness. As the quick-step came to an end, Antoine, with professional tact, contrived to end his progress in the neighbourhood of their table and, then, bowing gracefully, melted away. Harriet, a little flushed, smiled amiably upon Lord Peter.—

‘Oh, there you are,’ said his lordship.

Harriet became suddenly conscious that every woman in the room; was gazing furtively or with frank interest at Wimsey and herself, and the knowledge exhilarated her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘here I am. Frivolling. You didn’t know I could do it, did you?’

‘I have always taken it for granted that, you could do everything.’

‘Oh no I can only do what I like doing’

‘We’ll see about that.’

The orchestra swung gently into a dreamy tune. Wimsey advanced upon Harriet and steered her competently out into the centre of the room. For the first few bars of the music they had the floor to themselves.

‘At last,’ said Wimsey, ‘we are alone. That is not an. original remark, but I am in no condition to invent epigrams. I have been suffering agonies, and my soul is raw. Now that for a brief moment I have you all, to myself—’

‘Well?’ said Harriet. She was aware that the, wine-coloured frock became her.

‘What,’ said Wimsey, ‘do you make of Mr Henry Weldon?’

‘Oh!’

This was not quite the question Harriet had expected. She hastily collected her ideas. It was very necessary that she should be the perfect unemotional sleuth.

‘His manners are dreadful,’ she said, ‘and’ I don’t think his brains are much to write home about.

‘No, that’s just it.’

‘Just what?’

Wimsey countered the question with another. ‘Why is he here?’

‘She sent for him.’

‘Yes, but why is he here. Sudden spasm of filial affection?’

‘She thinks so.’’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Possibly. Or, more likely, he doesn’t’ want to get on the wrong side of her. It’s her money, you know.’

‘Quite. Yes. It’s funny that that should only just ‘have occurred to him. He’s very like her, isn’t he?’

‘Very. So much so that he gave me an odd feeling just at first, as though I’d met him somewhere. Do you mean that they are too much alike to hit it off together?’

‘They seem to be getting along all right at present’

‘I expect he’s glad to be relieved from the prospect of Paul Alexis, and can’t help showing it. He’s not very subtle.’

That’s what feminine intuition makes of it, is it?’

‘Bother feminine intuition. Do you find him romantic or obscure?’

‘No; I wish I did. I only find him offensive.’

‘Oh?’

‘And I’d like to know why.’

Silence for a few moments. Harriet felt that Wimsey ought to be saying, ‘How well you dance.’ Since he did not say it, she became convinced that she was dancing like a wax doll with sawdust legs. Wimsey had never danced with her, never held her in his arms before. It should have been an epoch-making moment for him. But his mind appeared to be concentrated upon the dull personality of an East Anglian farmer. She fell a victim to an inferiority complex, and tripped over her partner’s feet.

‘Sorry,’ said Wimsey, accepting responsibility like a gentleman.

‘It’s my fault,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m a rotten dancer. Don’t bother about me. Let’s stop. You haven’t got to be polite to me, you know.’

Worse and worse. She was being peevish and egotistical. Wimsey glanced down at her in surprise and then suddenly smiled.

‘Darling, if you danced like an elderly elephant with arthritis, I would dance the sun and moon into the sea with you. I have waited a thousand years to see you dance in that frock.’

‘Idiot’ said Harriet.

They made the circuit of the room in silence and harmony. Antoine, guiding an enormous person in jade-green and diamonds, swam comet-like into their orbit and murmured into Harriet’s ear across an expanse of fat white shoulder:

‘Qu’est-ce que je vous ai-dit? L’elan, c’est trouve.’

He slid away dexterously, leaving Harriet flushed.

‘What did that blighter say?’

‘He said I danced better with you than with him.’

‘Curse his impudence!’ Wimsey scowled over the heads of the intervening couples at Antoine’s elegant back.

‘Tell me now,’ said Harriet. The ending of the dance had found them on the opposite side of the room from the Weldons, and it seemed natural to sit down at the nearest table. ‘Tell me, what is biting you about Henry Weldon?’

‘Henry Weldon?’ Wimsey jerked his mind back from an immense distance. ‘Yes, of course. Why is he here? Not to worm himself into his mother’s good graces, surely?’