unnaturally indignant.
Frances Fleur must think her an awful ass.
And yet, in a dim sort of way, it seemed to her that there was something not quite right about Frances Fleur.
She hesitated over this. It was not that she was disappointed; not exactly . No! Miss Fleur was undoubtedly beautiful. And she was very pleasant. Nobody could help liking her. Yet it seemed to Monica, whose mind worked even in a bedazzled haze, that she was not very intelligent.
It also seemed to Monica, who was very fond of ancient Rome, that Miss Fleur somehow did not belong there. That phrase: ‘My husband says –’ slipped over her tongue with the glibness of long use. Monica had a very keen ear in this respect, since Miss Flossie Stanton’s conversation was almost exclusively concerned with: ‘My brother says–’ or: ‘As I said to my brother.’ Again, be fair. It was not that she expected Miss Fleur, in private life, to sparkle with epigrams, recline among doves and courtiers, and call for the liquidation of Christians: which, as every filmgoer knows, is the only thing anybody ever did do in ancient Rome. But there are feelings in these things. There is instinct and sure knowledge. And it occurred to her that Miss Frances Fleur had not got the right Roman spirit.
Whereas the unspeakable Cartwright, on the other hand –
‘Miss!’ said a voice beside her. ‘Miss Stanton!’
She did not hear it.
She saw a mental picture of Cartwright dressed up in a Roman toga, his Sherlock-Holmes pipe in his mouth and his hand uplifted for didactic utterance. She sat back and whooped with laughter; the first time she had laughed that day.
Bad as he was, give the man his due. Cartwright as an ancient Roman would not do too badly. He would argue the ears off the quirites and sit up all night explaining why somebody’s epic poem was rubbish. If only he would shave off that sun-glinting, that lint-catching, that super-comical beard.
A voice at her elbow urged:
‘Please, miss!’
Monica descended from the Palatine Hill to find a page-boy, all shining face and shining buttons, plucking at her sleeve. Having caught her attention, the page threw back his chest and intoned.
‘Mr Hackett says, will you come with me, please?’
‘Yes, of course. Where?’
‘Mr Hackett says,’ piped the boy, with the air of a miniature sergeant-major, ‘will you go to the practical house on Eighteen-eighty-two, and see him in the back room?’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a set, miss. I’ll-show-yer.’
He strode ahead, his chest out and his arms swinging. Monica looked round. She could not see Cartwright or Hackett or Fisk or anyone else she knew. The sound and camera crews were packing up and leaving; it gave Monica an odd feeling of uneasiness.
She ran after the boy, whom she could have sworn she had seen somewhere before. But she could not place him. He led her down an aisle, between long rows of stuffy-smelling canvas flats, back in the direction towards the door of the sound-stage. It was dark except for an illuminated clock on the wall, the hands indicating a few minutes past five. Two men stood under it.
Dimly, the clock illuminated the heads of the two men. One was a short fat man with a cigar, the other a tall spectacled young man with an ultra-refined accent.
Monica heard their voices as she passed.
‘Lookit,’ said the fat man. ‘This battle sequence we’re going to shoot.’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson?’
‘It’s lousy. There ain’t enough feminine interest in it. Here’s what I want you should do. I want you should have the Duchess of Richmond in the battle, right alongside of the Duke of Wellington.’
‘But the Duchess of Richmond wouldn’t be on the field marshal’s staff, Mr Aaronson.’
‘Jeez, don’t I know that? We got to make it sound probable or the public won’t fall for it. So here’s what we do. The other officers are all drunk, see?’
‘Who are, Mr Aaronson?’
‘The Duke of Wellington’s staff. They been out on a
Frances Fleur must think her an awful ass.
And yet, in a dim sort of way, it seemed to her that there was something not quite right about Frances Fleur.
She hesitated over this. It was not that she was disappointed; not exactly . No! Miss Fleur was undoubtedly beautiful. And she was very pleasant. Nobody could help liking her. Yet it seemed to Monica, whose mind worked even in a bedazzled haze, that she was not very intelligent.
It also seemed to Monica, who was very fond of ancient Rome, that Miss Fleur somehow did not belong there. That phrase: ‘My husband says –’ slipped over her tongue with the glibness of long use. Monica had a very keen ear in this respect, since Miss Flossie Stanton’s conversation was almost exclusively concerned with: ‘My brother says–’ or: ‘As I said to my brother.’ Again, be fair. It was not that she expected Miss Fleur, in private life, to sparkle with epigrams, recline among doves and courtiers, and call for the liquidation of Christians: which, as every filmgoer knows, is the only thing anybody ever did do in ancient Rome. But there are feelings in these things. There is instinct and sure knowledge. And it occurred to her that Miss Frances Fleur had not got the right Roman spirit.
Whereas the unspeakable Cartwright, on the other hand –
‘Miss!’ said a voice beside her. ‘Miss Stanton!’
She did not hear it.
She saw a mental picture of Cartwright dressed up in a Roman toga, his Sherlock-Holmes pipe in his mouth and his hand uplifted for didactic utterance. She sat back and whooped with laughter; the first time she had laughed that day.
Bad as he was, give the man his due. Cartwright as an ancient Roman would not do too badly. He would argue the ears off the quirites and sit up all night explaining why somebody’s epic poem was rubbish. If only he would shave off that sun-glinting, that lint-catching, that super-comical beard.
A voice at her elbow urged:
‘Please, miss!’
Monica descended from the Palatine Hill to find a page-boy, all shining face and shining buttons, plucking at her sleeve. Having caught her attention, the page threw back his chest and intoned.
‘Mr Hackett says, will you come with me, please?’
‘Yes, of course. Where?’
‘Mr Hackett says,’ piped the boy, with the air of a miniature sergeant-major, ‘will you go to the practical house on Eighteen-eighty-two, and see him in the back room?’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a set, miss. I’ll-show-yer.’
He strode ahead, his chest out and his arms swinging. Monica looked round. She could not see Cartwright or Hackett or Fisk or anyone else she knew. The sound and camera crews were packing up and leaving; it gave Monica an odd feeling of uneasiness.
She ran after the boy, whom she could have sworn she had seen somewhere before. But she could not place him. He led her down an aisle, between long rows of stuffy-smelling canvas flats, back in the direction towards the door of the sound-stage. It was dark except for an illuminated clock on the wall, the hands indicating a few minutes past five. Two men stood under it.
Dimly, the clock illuminated the heads of the two men. One was a short fat man with a cigar, the other a tall spectacled young man with an ultra-refined accent.
Monica heard their voices as she passed.
‘Lookit,’ said the fat man. ‘This battle sequence we’re going to shoot.’
‘Yes, Mr Aaronson?’
‘It’s lousy. There ain’t enough feminine interest in it. Here’s what I want you should do. I want you should have the Duchess of Richmond in the battle, right alongside of the Duke of Wellington.’
‘But the Duchess of Richmond wouldn’t be on the field marshal’s staff, Mr Aaronson.’
‘Jeez, don’t I know that? We got to make it sound probable or the public won’t fall for it. So here’s what we do. The other officers are all drunk, see?’
‘Who are, Mr Aaronson?’
‘The Duke of Wellington’s staff. They been out on a
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