arms toward Him, the audience turned to see to Whom. They found her most affecting.
Greville, who never forgot himself, lost his nerve and jumped nimbly behind a tree.
There was more applause. “Oh thank you,” said Emma. “But I can sing no more. I have exhausted my repertoire.”
“Indeed you cannot and have,” snapped Greville, rearing up out of nowhere. He grabbed her down and made off with her, followed by jeers, catcalls, admirative noises, empty gin bottles and derisory shrieks.
There would never, never, never be an end to it. He shook like the most expensive lap dog from Peru, shivering not for warmth, but as far away from her as he could get, with the rage of a baby most devilishly betrayed, let down, exposed, unmasked, traduced, made common sport of, should have known better than to take up with a common trull, I do not doubt Sir Harry’s taste, he has married his housekeeper, that explains his taste, but though he flung you out into the ungrateful grass after a mere six months, I wonder at his patience, even so; in other words, hate hath no synonym and rage no end to simile. Apart from that he would not speak.
“Why, whatever ’as ’appened?” demanded Mrs. Cadogan, surprised into the vernacular.
“Madam, you are her mother. Need you ask? She has shown her upbringing, lapsed into her native vulgarity,and made a fool of me,” snapped Greville, going into the library and slamming the door so hard that he set in motion both the small chandelier in the library and the large one in the dining room, whose vitreous derision lasted for a minute and a half by the clock—to Mrs. Cadogan, for an eternity.
The life here may not have been much, but as she had feared, it had been much too good to last. Wearily she trudged up the stairs, as far as she was concerned, just twenty-four hours before the removers, and already mentally bending with them to remove. If you cannot afford the theatre, you can always read the sonnets at home instead.
But Emma’s thespian talents, so freshly awakened only to be trampled underfoot, carried her through. Ripping off her ludicrous finery, a task not difficult—it had been basted merely; unstringing her corset, her dearest, most secret grownup possession so far, and he had not even noticed it; letting down her auburn hair; slipping into a simple cottage dress (which suited her to perfection, as she well knew); and pausing only for an instant before her mirror to make sure her wild, disheveled and grief-stricken locks were disheveled to the best possible advantage;—a Fair Penitent, a Magdalen, A Woman Undone and Utterly Given Up to Shame (it was at this point that she collided with Mrs. Cadogan on the stairs), a Village Milkmaid, La Penserosa with good cause, a Wailing and Abandoned Woman (taken from an engraving after Poussin’s “Massacre of the Innocents”), an Andromache, both Marys at the Tomb, Niobe Humbled utterly, Penelope perhaps—she dashed down the stairs, giggled out of nervousness, remembered to cry, and burst in upon him, weeping bitterly.
He was seated in a Greek chair, calming himself by the examination of a few choice rocks from his collection, two pieces of branch coral and a sea sponge of rare and intricate design. He looked annoyed.
“Forgive, forgive poor repentant Emma,” cried Emma, raising her hands clasped in the gesture of the old Hellenistic Beggar he admired so much—the wrong sex, butof that no matter. “Forgive”—she said, and paused—“an Errant Soul. Or, if you are ashamed of me, Dismiss me, Abandon Me, and I shall disappear as Poor and Miserable as when you found me—in fact, more miserable, for never again to see my Dear, Devoted Greville.”
From real emotion Greville shrank. But in this tirade he seemed to detect the authentic notes of a comfortable, conformable and convincing insincerity. Laying aside his branch coral, he consented to look at her, his pale blue eyes full for the moment of a responsive and therefore
Greville, who never forgot himself, lost his nerve and jumped nimbly behind a tree.
There was more applause. “Oh thank you,” said Emma. “But I can sing no more. I have exhausted my repertoire.”
“Indeed you cannot and have,” snapped Greville, rearing up out of nowhere. He grabbed her down and made off with her, followed by jeers, catcalls, admirative noises, empty gin bottles and derisory shrieks.
There would never, never, never be an end to it. He shook like the most expensive lap dog from Peru, shivering not for warmth, but as far away from her as he could get, with the rage of a baby most devilishly betrayed, let down, exposed, unmasked, traduced, made common sport of, should have known better than to take up with a common trull, I do not doubt Sir Harry’s taste, he has married his housekeeper, that explains his taste, but though he flung you out into the ungrateful grass after a mere six months, I wonder at his patience, even so; in other words, hate hath no synonym and rage no end to simile. Apart from that he would not speak.
“Why, whatever ’as ’appened?” demanded Mrs. Cadogan, surprised into the vernacular.
“Madam, you are her mother. Need you ask? She has shown her upbringing, lapsed into her native vulgarity,and made a fool of me,” snapped Greville, going into the library and slamming the door so hard that he set in motion both the small chandelier in the library and the large one in the dining room, whose vitreous derision lasted for a minute and a half by the clock—to Mrs. Cadogan, for an eternity.
The life here may not have been much, but as she had feared, it had been much too good to last. Wearily she trudged up the stairs, as far as she was concerned, just twenty-four hours before the removers, and already mentally bending with them to remove. If you cannot afford the theatre, you can always read the sonnets at home instead.
But Emma’s thespian talents, so freshly awakened only to be trampled underfoot, carried her through. Ripping off her ludicrous finery, a task not difficult—it had been basted merely; unstringing her corset, her dearest, most secret grownup possession so far, and he had not even noticed it; letting down her auburn hair; slipping into a simple cottage dress (which suited her to perfection, as she well knew); and pausing only for an instant before her mirror to make sure her wild, disheveled and grief-stricken locks were disheveled to the best possible advantage;—a Fair Penitent, a Magdalen, A Woman Undone and Utterly Given Up to Shame (it was at this point that she collided with Mrs. Cadogan on the stairs), a Village Milkmaid, La Penserosa with good cause, a Wailing and Abandoned Woman (taken from an engraving after Poussin’s “Massacre of the Innocents”), an Andromache, both Marys at the Tomb, Niobe Humbled utterly, Penelope perhaps—she dashed down the stairs, giggled out of nervousness, remembered to cry, and burst in upon him, weeping bitterly.
He was seated in a Greek chair, calming himself by the examination of a few choice rocks from his collection, two pieces of branch coral and a sea sponge of rare and intricate design. He looked annoyed.
“Forgive, forgive poor repentant Emma,” cried Emma, raising her hands clasped in the gesture of the old Hellenistic Beggar he admired so much—the wrong sex, butof that no matter. “Forgive”—she said, and paused—“an Errant Soul. Or, if you are ashamed of me, Dismiss me, Abandon Me, and I shall disappear as Poor and Miserable as when you found me—in fact, more miserable, for never again to see my Dear, Devoted Greville.”
From real emotion Greville shrank. But in this tirade he seemed to detect the authentic notes of a comfortable, conformable and convincing insincerity. Laying aside his branch coral, he consented to look at her, his pale blue eyes full for the moment of a responsive and therefore
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