wondering vaguely why Lady Fortnum should think it necessary to wear a diamond pendant as big as a broad bean at a tennis party.
Her companion’s views on Mr. Aldous Huxley did not surprise her. She had long since ceased to be distressed by the calm dogmatizing upon artistic subjects which takes the place in country circles of intelligent criticism. If one did not happen to like a certain book, picture, or piece of music, one took it for granted that the book, picture, or piece of music was just bad; and the people who thought it was good were, quite simply and plainly, mistaken. It never occurred to any female critic that a book might possibly be above her own level of intelligence (the men of course read only detective stories).
“My dear Mrs. Aysgarth – really! I mean, the Sitwells! Isn’t Osbert Sitwell the man who speaks his poetry while his sister plays a trumpet? Well, I mean ...”
Exit Mr. Osbert Sitwell as a subject for discussion.
Probably the critic would add: “I mean, why
write
about unpleasant things, when there’s so much unpleasantness in the world already? What I like is a nice, clever story, with real people in it. Gilbert Frankau, you know. Or Michael Arlen. I know some people think Michael Arlen rather highbrow, but I
like
him.”
And Lina would murmur feebly something to the effect of Michael Arlen being a very popular author, which was undeniably true and committed her to nothing.
She suddenly felt now that she could bear Lady Fortnum no longer. She rose, with a bright little excuse which she felt must sound as insincere as it was, and abandoned Lady Fortnum and her literary views to Harry Newsham, who was sitting on the other side of her.
She hoped, maliciously, that Harry would entertain her with his favourite subject, politics.
She looked down the line of chairs. Freda Newsham was sitting next to a middle-aged major, and both looked as bored with each other as they probably were. Evidently, thought Lina, Major Scargill was more interested in the play than in his companion: an unforgivable sin, from Freda’s point of view. Freda always expected attentions as well as attention, even at a tennis party.
Lina exchanged a smile with Janet Caldwell, who was nobly listening to Bob Farroway’s stories of the prodigious feats performed by his elderly Morris car on the neighbouring hills. Janet had the sense not to play tennis, since she did not play well enough. Lina often envied her her courage.
Janet liked good deeds. Lina did not.
There were two chairs vacant, one beside Mary Farroway and one beside Joyce.
“A somewhat sticky lot, your friends this afternoon,” commented Joyce with sisterly frankness, as Lina dropped into the chair beside her.
Lina agreed. “And yet some of them would probably be quite amusing at one of your cocktail parties,” she added. “I think they’re rather overawed by Cecil.”
“Cecil does have that effect. I can’t imagine why.”
Lina could imagine it. The mildest of men, as she quite well knew, Cecil had exactly that effect upon herself. And she knew that she herself had that effect upon other people, which was odder still.
“Perhaps it’s his beard,” she said, with a feeble giggle.
The set came to an end, and Lina arranged another.
The players drifted towards the chairs, Winnie Treacher alone, and Cecil, looking even more melancholy than usual, between Edith Farroway and Martin Caddis. Lina saw a literary light kindling in Mrs. Newsham’s eyes and heard Edith Farroway saying: “Of course, I often think
I
could write a book, if only I could spare the time.” She hurried to Cecil’s rescue.
It seemed to her that Cecil’s melancholy was spreading. Faces grew more and more listless and occasionally yawned; even Bob Farroway’s horse-laugh ceased to ring out. Harry Newsham had given up Lady Fortnum in his turn, and was watching the play with an expression of concentrated interest. Lina, looking helplessly round, felt that of all the
Her companion’s views on Mr. Aldous Huxley did not surprise her. She had long since ceased to be distressed by the calm dogmatizing upon artistic subjects which takes the place in country circles of intelligent criticism. If one did not happen to like a certain book, picture, or piece of music, one took it for granted that the book, picture, or piece of music was just bad; and the people who thought it was good were, quite simply and plainly, mistaken. It never occurred to any female critic that a book might possibly be above her own level of intelligence (the men of course read only detective stories).
“My dear Mrs. Aysgarth – really! I mean, the Sitwells! Isn’t Osbert Sitwell the man who speaks his poetry while his sister plays a trumpet? Well, I mean ...”
Exit Mr. Osbert Sitwell as a subject for discussion.
Probably the critic would add: “I mean, why
write
about unpleasant things, when there’s so much unpleasantness in the world already? What I like is a nice, clever story, with real people in it. Gilbert Frankau, you know. Or Michael Arlen. I know some people think Michael Arlen rather highbrow, but I
like
him.”
And Lina would murmur feebly something to the effect of Michael Arlen being a very popular author, which was undeniably true and committed her to nothing.
She suddenly felt now that she could bear Lady Fortnum no longer. She rose, with a bright little excuse which she felt must sound as insincere as it was, and abandoned Lady Fortnum and her literary views to Harry Newsham, who was sitting on the other side of her.
She hoped, maliciously, that Harry would entertain her with his favourite subject, politics.
She looked down the line of chairs. Freda Newsham was sitting next to a middle-aged major, and both looked as bored with each other as they probably were. Evidently, thought Lina, Major Scargill was more interested in the play than in his companion: an unforgivable sin, from Freda’s point of view. Freda always expected attentions as well as attention, even at a tennis party.
Lina exchanged a smile with Janet Caldwell, who was nobly listening to Bob Farroway’s stories of the prodigious feats performed by his elderly Morris car on the neighbouring hills. Janet had the sense not to play tennis, since she did not play well enough. Lina often envied her her courage.
Janet liked good deeds. Lina did not.
There were two chairs vacant, one beside Mary Farroway and one beside Joyce.
“A somewhat sticky lot, your friends this afternoon,” commented Joyce with sisterly frankness, as Lina dropped into the chair beside her.
Lina agreed. “And yet some of them would probably be quite amusing at one of your cocktail parties,” she added. “I think they’re rather overawed by Cecil.”
“Cecil does have that effect. I can’t imagine why.”
Lina could imagine it. The mildest of men, as she quite well knew, Cecil had exactly that effect upon herself. And she knew that she herself had that effect upon other people, which was odder still.
“Perhaps it’s his beard,” she said, with a feeble giggle.
The set came to an end, and Lina arranged another.
The players drifted towards the chairs, Winnie Treacher alone, and Cecil, looking even more melancholy than usual, between Edith Farroway and Martin Caddis. Lina saw a literary light kindling in Mrs. Newsham’s eyes and heard Edith Farroway saying: “Of course, I often think
I
could write a book, if only I could spare the time.” She hurried to Cecil’s rescue.
It seemed to her that Cecil’s melancholy was spreading. Faces grew more and more listless and occasionally yawned; even Bob Farroway’s horse-laugh ceased to ring out. Harry Newsham had given up Lady Fortnum in his turn, and was watching the play with an expression of concentrated interest. Lina, looking helplessly round, felt that of all the
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