Paths of Glory

She reached into her sleeve and drew out a slip of paper, which she unfolded and placed on the table in front of her. George looked down at a check which read Pay: The Royal Geographical Society $10,000. He thought

about Mr. Hinks, and remained seated.

“Now, you just think about that for a moment, George, while I slip into something a little less formal. Do help yourself to another drink while I’m away. Mine’s a gin and tonic,” she added before leaving the room.

George picked up the check, and was about to place it in his wallet when he saw the edge of a small photograph sticking out between two dollar bills. He pulled out the picture of Ruth he had taken during their honeymoon, and which he always carried with him on his travels. He smiled, put the photograph back in his wallet and tore the check in half. He walked across to the door and slowly turned the handle, only to discover that it was locked. What a pity the RGS hadn’t selected Finch for the American tour, he thought, because then the Society’s coffers would undoubtedly have been swelled by $10,000, and he felt confident Mrs. Harrington would have considered it a good investment.

George walked across to the other side of the room, slipped the latch on the sill, and quietly slid open the window. He stuck his head out, and considered the best possible route. He was pleased to see that the façade of the building was made up of large rough stone slabs, evenly placed. He stepped out onto the ledge and began to make his way slowly down the building, and when he was five feet from the ground, he jumped down onto the sidewalk. George walked quickly across the street. He knew that a climber should never look back, but he couldn’t resist it, and was suitably rewarded. There, standing by an open upper-story window, was a beautiful woman wearing only a sheer negligee that left little to the imagination.

“Damn,” said George when he remembered he hadn’t bought a present for Ruth.

Ruth knocked gently on the front door of No. 37 Tite Street; a moment later it was opened by a maid, who curtsied and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Mallory. Would you be kind enough to follow me?”

When Ruth entered the drawing room, she found her hostess standing by the fireplace beneath an oil painting of her late husband approaching the South Pole. She was wearing a simple long black dress, no make-up, and no jewelry other than an engagement and wedding ring.

“What a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mallory,” said Kathleen Scott as they shook hands. “Please come and join me by the fire,” she added, ushering her to a comfortable chair opposite her.

“It’s extremely kind of you to agree to see me,” said Ruth. As she sat down the maid reappeared, carrying a silver tray laden with tea and biscuits, which she placed on a table by her mistress’s side.

“You can leave us, Millie,” said Captain Scott’s widow. “And I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Yes, of course, my lady,” said the maid, leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind her.

“Indian or China, Mrs. Mallory?”

“Indian, please.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk, thank you,” said Ruth.

Mrs. Scott completed the little ceremony and passed Ruth a cup of tea. “I was intrigued by your letter,” she said. “You indicated there was a personal matter that you wished to discuss with me.”

“Yes,” replied Ruth tentatively. “I need your advice.”

Ruth’s hostess nodded before giving her a warm smile.

“My husband,” began Ruth, “is currently on a lecture tour in the United States, and I’m expecting him back any day now. Although he’s told me several times that he doesn’t wish to lead the next RGS expedition to Everest, I have no doubt that that is exactly what he does want.”

“And how do you feel about him returning to the Himalaya?”

“After his long absence during the war, followed by the expedition to Everest, and now his trip to America, I really don’t want him to be away for another six months.”

“I can appreciate that, my dear. Con was exactly the same—just like a child, never able to settle in the same place for more than a few months at a time.”

“Did he ever ask how you felt about that?”

“Constantly, but I knew he only wanted reassurance, so I told him what he wished to hear, that I believed he was doing the right thing.”

“And did you?”

“Not always,” the older woman admitted with a sigh. “But however much I yearned for him to stay at home and lead a normal life, that was never going to be a possibility, because just like your husband, Mrs. Mallory, Con wasn’t a normal man.”

“Surely you must now regret not telling him how you really felt?”

“No, Mrs. Mallory, I do not. I would rather have spent two years with one of the most exciting men on earth, than forty with someone who thought I had prevented him from fulfilling his dream.”

Ruth tried to compose herself. “I can bear the thought of being apart from George for another six months.” She paused. “But not for the rest of my life.”