a nurse had been employed to take care of Lady Edwina. This nurse was a quiet woman, much despised by Beryl Tims. Certainly, Edwina was now no burden on Mrs Tims and the old lady was wilder and funnier than ever. I really loved her. At the latest meeting of the Autobiographical Association, which I was now chewing over with Dottie, Edwina had made her appearance with the tea, dressed in pale grey velvet with long and many strings of pearls. Her rouged wrinkles and smudgy mascara were wonderful to behold. She had behaved with expressive graciousness and was continent: only when it was time to withdraw and the nurse tiptoed bashfully into the room to fetch her, Edwina had given vent to one of her long cackles followed by, ‘Well, my dears, he’s got you where he wants you, hasn’t he? Ha! Trust my son Quentin.’ The bony index finger of her right hand pointed to Maisie Young. ‘Except you. He hasn’t started on you, yet.’ Maisie’s eyes were hypnotized by the long red fingernail pointed at her.
‘Mummy!’ said Quentin.
I had looked over to Dottie. She was murmuring with Beryl Tims, nodding wisely, very sympathetically.
I didn’t reply to Dottie when, sitting sulkily that night in my room, she continued to emphasize how sorry she felt for Beryl Tims and how strongly she felt that Edwina should be sent to a home. It seemed to me Dottie was trying to provoke me. I could see Dottie was tired. For some reason I seldom remember feeling tired, myself, in those days; I suppose I must have felt exhausted at times for I got through an amazing variety and number of things in the course of every days; but 1 simply can’t recall any occasion of weariness such as I could see in Dottie at that moment.
I made tea and I offered to read her a bit of my Warrender Chase. I did this for my own sake as much as to entertain, and, in a way, flatter her; for my own sake, though, because I intended to write some more pages of the book after Dottie went home, and this reading it over was a sort of preparation.
Now I had come to the bit where Warrender’s nephew Roland and his wife Marjorie have decided to start going over Warrender’s papers in preparation for Proudie, since Prudence, Warrender’s ancient mother, has appointed the scholar Proudie to deal with them. This is three weeks after the quiet country funeral for the family, which I described in detail. Dottie had already heard the funeral bit which she said was ‘far too cold’, but that hadn’t bothered me; in fact I felt her criticism was a rather good sign. ‘You haven’t brought home the tragedy of Warrender’s death,’ Dottie had said. Which hadn’t bothered me, either. Anyway, this was the new chapter which is written from Roland’s point of view. Which was that his uncle, Warrender Chase, had been a great man tragically cut off in his prime; it has been abundantly acknowledged, it is a public commonplace. He has successfully established his importance.
The family, secretly enjoying their stricken status, are counting on Roland and Marjorie to do their job conscientiously, to go through his papers with Proudie and eventually produce a Life and Letters or a memorial of some sort for Warrender Chase; whatever they do, even if it takes years, can’t help but be interesting. The task naturally saddens Roland, who leafs through the dead man’s papers. Warrender Chase, so vital a few weeks ago, and now so absolutely gone. Roland is sad, a bit unnerved. Why then has Marjorie, hitherto a rather neurotic and droopy woman of thirty, begun to perk up? Her new bloom and spirits have been increasingly noticeable day by days since the funeral. Proudie is very well aware of Marjorie’s new happiness.
The above is of course a rough reminder. But when I read it to Dottie that evening in my bed-sitting-room I could see she wasn’t liking it. I will quote the actual bit she finally objected to:
‘Marjorie,’ said Roland, ‘is there anything the matter with you?’
‘No,
‘Mummy!’ said Quentin.
I had looked over to Dottie. She was murmuring with Beryl Tims, nodding wisely, very sympathetically.
I didn’t reply to Dottie when, sitting sulkily that night in my room, she continued to emphasize how sorry she felt for Beryl Tims and how strongly she felt that Edwina should be sent to a home. It seemed to me Dottie was trying to provoke me. I could see Dottie was tired. For some reason I seldom remember feeling tired, myself, in those days; I suppose I must have felt exhausted at times for I got through an amazing variety and number of things in the course of every days; but 1 simply can’t recall any occasion of weariness such as I could see in Dottie at that moment.
I made tea and I offered to read her a bit of my Warrender Chase. I did this for my own sake as much as to entertain, and, in a way, flatter her; for my own sake, though, because I intended to write some more pages of the book after Dottie went home, and this reading it over was a sort of preparation.
Now I had come to the bit where Warrender’s nephew Roland and his wife Marjorie have decided to start going over Warrender’s papers in preparation for Proudie, since Prudence, Warrender’s ancient mother, has appointed the scholar Proudie to deal with them. This is three weeks after the quiet country funeral for the family, which I described in detail. Dottie had already heard the funeral bit which she said was ‘far too cold’, but that hadn’t bothered me; in fact I felt her criticism was a rather good sign. ‘You haven’t brought home the tragedy of Warrender’s death,’ Dottie had said. Which hadn’t bothered me, either. Anyway, this was the new chapter which is written from Roland’s point of view. Which was that his uncle, Warrender Chase, had been a great man tragically cut off in his prime; it has been abundantly acknowledged, it is a public commonplace. He has successfully established his importance.
The family, secretly enjoying their stricken status, are counting on Roland and Marjorie to do their job conscientiously, to go through his papers with Proudie and eventually produce a Life and Letters or a memorial of some sort for Warrender Chase; whatever they do, even if it takes years, can’t help but be interesting. The task naturally saddens Roland, who leafs through the dead man’s papers. Warrender Chase, so vital a few weeks ago, and now so absolutely gone. Roland is sad, a bit unnerved. Why then has Marjorie, hitherto a rather neurotic and droopy woman of thirty, begun to perk up? Her new bloom and spirits have been increasingly noticeable day by days since the funeral. Proudie is very well aware of Marjorie’s new happiness.
The above is of course a rough reminder. But when I read it to Dottie that evening in my bed-sitting-room I could see she wasn’t liking it. I will quote the actual bit she finally objected to:
‘Marjorie,’ said Roland, ‘is there anything the matter with you?’
‘No,
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