appropriate neighbourhood of Covent Garden. Seated among the fruit boxes and orange cases of the market, she would seem almost commonplace.
But she did not appear to be abashed by her intrusion. She halted in the doorway, and fumbling among the chains and beads about her neck, found a pair of lorgnettes, clicked them open, and stood peering through them into the ante room, turning her finger a little as she peered, so that all her chains and beads clashed softly together, like the trappings of an oriental dancer at a cheap music hall. The lorgnettes imparted to her short, plump, eccentric figure an air of comic but indomitable dignity. Her preposterous red hat, with its huge ribbon bows and sweeping pheasant's feather, bobbed triumphantly above her fizzled hair. Her green coat shone with age, but it was elaborately decorated with lumps and bands of sealskin, the fur worn to that soft ruddy opales cence which it acquires with extreme decrepitude. Her shoes-Joseph had taught himself always to look at a woman's shoes-were worse than inadequate, they were shameful.
It was quite hideous that she should be there, destroying the muted perfection of that subterranean refuge from distressing things. Her poverty, her oddity, her jaunty air of unintimidated resolution were abominable.
Joseph was a soft-hearted man. He did not wish to be re minded of the poverty and loneliness of odd old ladies when about to enjoy himself at a good restaurant. Supposing St. Denis came in and saw her there? Joseph shuddered, and tried to turn his mind to the anticipation of cr é pes de Volailles.
But through the open door he saw now, coming down the staircase, a pair of elegant feet with immaculate spats, fol lowed by beautifully pressed trousers, followed by a lounge suit of Mitchell's most perfect cut, followed by the thin, pale, handsome, supercilious face of Basil St. Denis. Horrors! St. Denis would see the old hag in the doorway. There was no remedy for this nightmare situation.
He did see her. St. Denis paused and looked at the woman. The woman turned and looked at St. Denis. Then she let her lorgnettes fall and held out her hand with a little cry of pleasure.
'Oh, I didn't see you and I knew I was late, and though I know it's silly, I always say to myself now has he been run over by a bus, or have I come to the wrong restaurant?'
'You've come to the right restaurant, and I was not run over by a bus, and here is our host waiting for us. Mr. Isen baum, may I introduce the honorary secretary of the Chris tian Cinema Company, Miss Caroline Denton-Smyth?'
Joseph gasped; Joseph stared. With a terrific effort he tried to pull himself together and to assume the careless courtesy of an Etonian's father. He heard his treacherous voice stammering:
'Pleased to meet you, Miss Denton-Smyth.'
After that there was nothing for it but a cocktail.
If Miss Denton-Smyth looked strange in the restaurant, she made it quite clear by her manner that she felt quite at home there. She settled herself at the little painted table, and talked to the waiter with smiling familiarity. She would certainly have a cocktail. If Alexandres really had whipped cream in them, she would have an Alexandre. She adored whipped cream. She adored those very curious paintings on the wall. A little Bohemian perhaps; but then it was nice, once in a way, to be Bohemian. And now that she was con nected with the cinema trade it was important to get to know all sorts and conditions of men - and women. She caught sight of a lovely blonde, trim as a magpie in black and white, dazzling an enamoured stock-broker at a corner table - 'Men and women,' repeated Miss Denton-Smyth, sipping her Alexandre with satisfaction.
Joseph watched her, fascinated. He noticed that St. Denis took her entirely for granted, treated her as though her oddity were an asset, or, even more subtly, as though she were not odd at all. And following St. Denis, attempting to imitate St. Denis's delicacy of feeling, Joseph
But she did not appear to be abashed by her intrusion. She halted in the doorway, and fumbling among the chains and beads about her neck, found a pair of lorgnettes, clicked them open, and stood peering through them into the ante room, turning her finger a little as she peered, so that all her chains and beads clashed softly together, like the trappings of an oriental dancer at a cheap music hall. The lorgnettes imparted to her short, plump, eccentric figure an air of comic but indomitable dignity. Her preposterous red hat, with its huge ribbon bows and sweeping pheasant's feather, bobbed triumphantly above her fizzled hair. Her green coat shone with age, but it was elaborately decorated with lumps and bands of sealskin, the fur worn to that soft ruddy opales cence which it acquires with extreme decrepitude. Her shoes-Joseph had taught himself always to look at a woman's shoes-were worse than inadequate, they were shameful.
It was quite hideous that she should be there, destroying the muted perfection of that subterranean refuge from distressing things. Her poverty, her oddity, her jaunty air of unintimidated resolution were abominable.
Joseph was a soft-hearted man. He did not wish to be re minded of the poverty and loneliness of odd old ladies when about to enjoy himself at a good restaurant. Supposing St. Denis came in and saw her there? Joseph shuddered, and tried to turn his mind to the anticipation of cr é pes de Volailles.
But through the open door he saw now, coming down the staircase, a pair of elegant feet with immaculate spats, fol lowed by beautifully pressed trousers, followed by a lounge suit of Mitchell's most perfect cut, followed by the thin, pale, handsome, supercilious face of Basil St. Denis. Horrors! St. Denis would see the old hag in the doorway. There was no remedy for this nightmare situation.
He did see her. St. Denis paused and looked at the woman. The woman turned and looked at St. Denis. Then she let her lorgnettes fall and held out her hand with a little cry of pleasure.
'Oh, I didn't see you and I knew I was late, and though I know it's silly, I always say to myself now has he been run over by a bus, or have I come to the wrong restaurant?'
'You've come to the right restaurant, and I was not run over by a bus, and here is our host waiting for us. Mr. Isen baum, may I introduce the honorary secretary of the Chris tian Cinema Company, Miss Caroline Denton-Smyth?'
Joseph gasped; Joseph stared. With a terrific effort he tried to pull himself together and to assume the careless courtesy of an Etonian's father. He heard his treacherous voice stammering:
'Pleased to meet you, Miss Denton-Smyth.'
After that there was nothing for it but a cocktail.
If Miss Denton-Smyth looked strange in the restaurant, she made it quite clear by her manner that she felt quite at home there. She settled herself at the little painted table, and talked to the waiter with smiling familiarity. She would certainly have a cocktail. If Alexandres really had whipped cream in them, she would have an Alexandre. She adored whipped cream. She adored those very curious paintings on the wall. A little Bohemian perhaps; but then it was nice, once in a way, to be Bohemian. And now that she was con nected with the cinema trade it was important to get to know all sorts and conditions of men - and women. She caught sight of a lovely blonde, trim as a magpie in black and white, dazzling an enamoured stock-broker at a corner table - 'Men and women,' repeated Miss Denton-Smyth, sipping her Alexandre with satisfaction.
Joseph watched her, fascinated. He noticed that St. Denis took her entirely for granted, treated her as though her oddity were an asset, or, even more subtly, as though she were not odd at all. And following St. Denis, attempting to imitate St. Denis's delicacy of feeling, Joseph
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