May We Borrow Your Husband? by Graham Greene Read Free Book Online

It was easy enough, while I waited for my coffee, to speculate about the likely reasons. There was, for example, the rheumatism . . . though I couldn’t quite picture Tony in the character of a bedside companion. It was even remotely possible that they felt some shame and were unwilling to be confronted by their victim. As for the victim, I wondered sadly what painful revelation the night would certainly have brought. I blamed myself more than ever for not speaking in time. Surely she would have learned the truth more gently from me than from some tipsy uncontrolled outburst of her husband. All the same – such egoists are we in our passions – I was glad to be there in attendance . . . to staunch the tears . . . to take her tenderly in my arms, comfort her . . . oh, I had quite a romantic day-dream on the terrace before she came down the steps and I saw that she had never had less need of a comforter.
    She was just as I had seen her the first night: shy, excited, gay, with a long and happy future established in her eyes. ‘William,’ she said, ‘can I sit at your table? Do you mind?’
    â€˜Of course not.’
    â€˜You’ve been so patient with me all the time I was in the doldrums. I’ve talked an awful lot of nonsense to you. I know you told me it was nonsense, but I didn’t believe you and you were right all the time.’
    I couldn’t have interrupted her even if I had tried. She was a Venus at the prow sailing through sparkling seas. She said, ‘Everything’s all right. Everything. Last night – he loves me, William. He really does. He’s not a bit disappointed with me. He was just tired and strained, that’s all. He needed a day off alone – détendu .’ She was even picking up Tony’s French expressions second-hand. ‘I’m afraid of nothing now, nothing at all. Isn’t it strange how black life seemed only two days ago? I really believe if it hadn’t been for you I’d have thrown in my hand. How lucky I was to meet you and the others too. They’re such wonderful friends for Peter. We are all going home next week – and we’ve made a lovely plot together. Tony’s going to come down almost immediately we get back and decorate our house. Yesterday, driving in the country, they had a wonderful discussion about it. You won’t know our house when you see it – oh, I forgot, you never have seen it, have you? You must come down when it’s all finished – with Stephen.’
    â€˜Isn’t Stephen going to help?’ I just managed to slip in.
    â€˜Oh, he’s too busy at the moment, Tony says, with Mrs Clarenty. Do you like riding? Tony does. He adores horses, but he has so little chance in London. It will be wonderful for Peter – to have someone like that because, after all, I can’t be riding with Peter all day long, there will be a lot of things to do in the house, especially now, when I’m not accustomed. It’s wonderful to think that Peter won’t have to be lonely. He says there are going to be Etruscan murals in the bathroom – whatever Etruscan means; the drawing-room basically will be eggshell green and the dining-room walls Pompeian red. They really did an awful lot of work yesterday afternoon – I mean in their heads, while we were glooming around. I said to Peter, “As things are going now we’d better be prepared for a nursery,” but Peter said Tony was content to leave all that side to me. Then there are the stables: they were an old coach-house once, and Tony feels we could restore a lot of the ancient character and there’s a lamp he bought in St Paul which will just fit . . . it’s endless the things there are to be done – a good six months’ work, so Tony says, but luckily he can leave Mrs Clarenty to Stephen and concentrate on us. Peter asked him about the garden, but