The Honorary Consul by Graham Greene Page B

said, had telephoned to her from the camp. His wife was ill. He wanted Doctor Plarr to drive out to the camp and visit her.
           "Did he say what was wrong?"
           "Señora Fortnum has a pain in the stomach," the woman replied with contempt. The marriage had obviouslv pleased her no more than it had pleased Doctor Humphries.
           Doctor Plarr drove to the camp in the cool of the evening. The small ponds on either side of the highway looked like patches of molten lead in the last lingering light. Fortnum's Pride was standing at the end of a mud road under a grove of avocados, the heavy brown pears the size and shape of cannon balls. On the verandah of the rambling bungalow Charley Fortnum sat before a bottle of whisky, a syphon and, astonishingly, two clean glasses. "I've been waiting for you," he said reproachfully.
           "I couldn't come earlier. What's the trouble?"
           "Clara's been in a lot of pain."
           "I'll go in and see her."
           "Have a whisky first. I looked in at her just now and she was asleep."
           "Thank you then, I will. I'm thirsty. There's a lot of dust on the road."
           "Soda? Say when."
           "Right to the top."
           "I wanted to have a word with you anyway—before you went in. You've heard about my marriage I suppose?"
           "The Ambassador told me."
           "Had he anything to say?"
           "No. Why?"
           "There's been a lot of talk. And Humphries cuts me."
           "That's lucky for you."
           "You see—" Charley Fortnum hesitated. "Well, she is very young," he said. It was not clear whether he was excusing his critics or apologizing for himself.
           Doctor Plarr said, "Lucky again."
           "She's not twenty, and, you know, I won't see sixty again."
           Doctor Plarr wondered if he had been summoned to advise the Consul on a less soluble problem than his wife's stomach-ache. He drank to fill what he thought might be an awkward silence.
           "That's not the trouble," Charley Fortnum said. (Doctor Plarr was surprised by his insight.) "I can manage things well enough so far... and afterward... there's always the bottle, isn't there? An old family friend. The bottle I mean. Helped my father too, the old bastard. I just wanted to explain about her. Otherwise you might be a bit surprised when you see her. She's so very young. And shy too. She's not used to this sort of life. A house like this and servants. And the country The country's awfully quiet after dark."
           "Where does she come from?"
           "Tucumán. Real Indian blood. A long way back of course. I ought to warn you—she doesn't much care for doctors. She's had a bad experience of them."
           "I'll try to win her confidence," Doctor Plarr said.
           "This pain," Charley Fortnum said, "it did occur to me it might be, you know, a child. Or something of the kind."
           "She doesn't take the pill?"
           "You know what these Spanish Catholics are like. Superstition, of course. Like walking under a ladder. Clara doesn't know who Shakespeare is, but she's heard all about the Pope's what-do-you-call-it. Anyway I'd have to get the pills somehow through the Embassy. Can you imagine what they'd say? You can't even buy them under the counter here. Of course I always wore a thing until we were really together."
           "So you bore the sin for her?" Doctor Plarr teased him.
           "Oh well, my conscience has got pretty tough with age. Another little thing won't do it any harm. And if she's happier that way... When you've finished your whisky..."
           He led Doctor Plarr down a corridor hung with Victorian sporting prints: riders falling into a stream, checked at a bullfinch, rebuked by the master. He walked softly on tiptoe. At the end of the corridor he opened a door just a crack and looked in. "I think she's