Random Harvest by James Hilton Read Free Book Online Page B

now to conceal his opinion of a former friend’s wife.  “She’s an unusual sort of woman, Harrison.”
    “Well, he’s not so usual, either.”
    “They get on well together?  Is that your impression?”
    I answered guardedly:  “I think she makes a good politician’s wife.”
    “And I suppose, by the same token, you think he makes a good politician?”
    “He has some of the attributes.  Clever speaker and a good way with people.”
    “When he’s in the mood.  He isn’t always. . . .  Did you ever hear about the Bridgelow Antiquarian Dinner?”
    I shook my head.
    “It was—oh, several years ago.  He was supposed to be helping the candidate, and during the campaign we asked him to our annual beano— strictly non-party—just a semi-learned society, with the accent on the semi.  I was president at the time, and Rainier was next to me at the table.  Half-way through his speech, which began pretty well, there was a bit of a disturbance caused by old General Wych-Furlough fumbling in late and apologizing—his car had broken down or something.  He talked rather loudly, like most deaf people, and of course it WAS annoying to a speaker, but the whole incident was over in a minute, most people would have passed it off.  Rainier, however, seemed to freeze up suddenly, couldn’t conceal the way he felt about it, finished his speech almost immediately and left the table rather sooner than he decently could.  I went out with him for a moment, told him frankly I thought his behaviour had been rather childish—surely age and infirmity entitled people to some latitude—it wasn’t as if there’d been any intentional discourtesy.  He said then, in a rather panicky way:  ‘It wasn’t that—it was something in the fellow himself—something chemical, maybe, in the way we react to each other.’  I thought his explanation even more peculiar than his behaviour.”
    I checked myself from commenting, and Freeman, noticing it, said:
    “Go on—what was it you were going to ask?”
    “I was just wondering—is it possible he had one of those submerged memories—of having met the General before?”
    “I thought of that later on, but it didn’t seem likely they could ever have met.  He didn’t even know the General’s name.  And if they HAD met before, I still can’t think of any reason for antagonism—the old boy was just a fussy, simple-minded, stupid fellow with a distinguished military career and a repertoire of exceptionally dull stories about hunting.”
    “Was Mrs. Rainier at the dinner?”
    “No, she wouldn’t come to anything I was president of—that’s very certain.”  He added, as if glad to get back to the subject:
    “A strange woman.  I’m not sure I altogether trust her—and that isn’t because I don’t particularly like her.  It’s something deeper.  She always seems to me to be hiding something.  I suppose it’s part of my job to have these psychic feelings about people. . . .  You know about her famous parties?”
    “Who doesn’t?  I’ve sampled them.”
    “Mind you, let’s be fair.  She’s not a snob in the ordinary sense—
    I mean about birth or money.  Of course it would be too ridiculous if she were—since she began with neither herself.  But what exactly IS it that she goes for?  Brains?  Celebrity?  Notoriety?  I went to Kenmore once, and I must admit she plays the game loathsomely well.  But all this relentless celebrity-hunting and party-giving doesn’t make a home—and I’m damned if I know what it DOES make.”
    “Some people say it’s made Rainier’s career.”
    “I’ve heard that too—from people who don’t like him.  The people who don’t like HER will tell you her methods have actually held him back.  Still, I don’t deny she’s a good mate for a man of affairs.  The real point is whether Rainier’s life ought to be cluttered up with business and politics at all.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Simply that I’ve always