cold.”
Christine was surprised at the effect of this announcement. James whistled and appeared perturbed, Diana groaned and muttered, “Of
course
,” and Clive Lennox said, “Poor angel.” Mrs. Traill herself looked solemn, as though proclaiming some crisis of the global type.
“What time is she coming?” asked Clive next. “I might run down and meet her.”
“Oh, rubbish, Peter’s there, isn’t he? Let him cope with her.”
“He said she got no sleep last night. They ran out of petrol.”
“They
what
?” Diana shrieked.
Mrs. Traill shrugged. “That’s what he said. I couldn’t hear properly, the line was bad.”
‘What I
cannot
stand about Antonia’s colds,” Diana said vigorously, “is her never getting them in the nose. Other people do, they drip and look red and sore, but not Antonia. She just
caws
at you attractively—like Tallulah used to. Remember Tallulah in ‘Scotch Mist’, Fabia?”
“Yes. But that—last night, I mean—wasn’t like …” Mrs. Traill’s sentence tailed off and she bit on a piece of toast, looking conscious. Diana just glanced at Christine.
“Where was he calling from,” asked Clive, after a small silence.
“Some place on Exmoor, I gathered.”
“
What
a fool the man is. Surely he knows by now she loathes the country,” said Diana.
“There is always hope—‘unfortunately’, as poor Wilde said.” Clive got up from the table. “I want a paper. Coming, James?”
“You may have to go down to the tube station, Mr. Meredith,” warned Christine, “the paper-shops both shut at half-past five.”
“Never mind, a walk will do our figures good, won’t it, James?” They went out together, saying they might find a chemist’s, and lay in a good stock of ‘the usual things’ for Antonia’s cold.
“She often gets them before a show,” Mrs. Traill said to Christine, when the ladies were alone and rather languidly beginning on fruit, cigarettes and coffee. (“What a trial they are, going off like that; I haven’t talked to Clive for ages) And on Monday it’s the Spring one.”
“A dress show?” asked Christine, interested.
“At Nigel Rooth’s, yes. Antonia usually works them out to the last tiny detail and then goes away for the week-end before the opening; Nigel R. nearly expired on the spot the first time she did it, but now he’s used to it. They both say it’s good for the staff, makes them responsible and so forth.”
“I shouldn’t feel safe, leaving it all to bits of girls,” Christine said.
“Oh, Nigel R. will be very much there, don’t you fret, and they aren’t all girls, some of them are quite elderly.”
“But if she gets this cold, worrying about it—” Christine knew about psychological ailments, thanks to many a tedious half-hour spent listening to her brother Garfield.
“Oh, she doesn’t get them over
that
.” Mrs. Traill’s tone had become meaningful and her expression what Christine called ‘
kind-of-churchy
’. “They’re an expression of subconscious resentment. She resents her job and wants to give it up and flop on some man.”
“Rubbish,” said Diana, beginning to peel a plum. “This time, whatever reason she gives for catching it, we all know what she’s worrying about.” She looked across at Fabia and nodded. “Ferenc Briggs. Nothing subconscious about him.”
Mrs. Traill sighed and looked distressed. “Poor sweetie, it is hard luck.”
“Not if you’re right, Fabia,” Diana said, and something in the gleam of her eye and the ring in her tone caused Christine, who was listening a little bemusedly, to let her eye wander to the fast-emptying second wine bottle. “If you’re right, she’ll be relieved when the break comes and Ferenc’s got her job. Then she can relax, and fall back into the arms of Peter—”
“He’d overbalance,” gurgled Mrs. Traill, refilling her glass and her friend’s.
“Well—Peter or someone. She’s always got a number of them floating
Christine was surprised at the effect of this announcement. James whistled and appeared perturbed, Diana groaned and muttered, “Of
course
,” and Clive Lennox said, “Poor angel.” Mrs. Traill herself looked solemn, as though proclaiming some crisis of the global type.
“What time is she coming?” asked Clive next. “I might run down and meet her.”
“Oh, rubbish, Peter’s there, isn’t he? Let him cope with her.”
“He said she got no sleep last night. They ran out of petrol.”
“They
what
?” Diana shrieked.
Mrs. Traill shrugged. “That’s what he said. I couldn’t hear properly, the line was bad.”
‘What I
cannot
stand about Antonia’s colds,” Diana said vigorously, “is her never getting them in the nose. Other people do, they drip and look red and sore, but not Antonia. She just
caws
at you attractively—like Tallulah used to. Remember Tallulah in ‘Scotch Mist’, Fabia?”
“Yes. But that—last night, I mean—wasn’t like …” Mrs. Traill’s sentence tailed off and she bit on a piece of toast, looking conscious. Diana just glanced at Christine.
“Where was he calling from,” asked Clive, after a small silence.
“Some place on Exmoor, I gathered.”
“
What
a fool the man is. Surely he knows by now she loathes the country,” said Diana.
“There is always hope—‘unfortunately’, as poor Wilde said.” Clive got up from the table. “I want a paper. Coming, James?”
“You may have to go down to the tube station, Mr. Meredith,” warned Christine, “the paper-shops both shut at half-past five.”
“Never mind, a walk will do our figures good, won’t it, James?” They went out together, saying they might find a chemist’s, and lay in a good stock of ‘the usual things’ for Antonia’s cold.
“She often gets them before a show,” Mrs. Traill said to Christine, when the ladies were alone and rather languidly beginning on fruit, cigarettes and coffee. (“What a trial they are, going off like that; I haven’t talked to Clive for ages) And on Monday it’s the Spring one.”
“A dress show?” asked Christine, interested.
“At Nigel Rooth’s, yes. Antonia usually works them out to the last tiny detail and then goes away for the week-end before the opening; Nigel R. nearly expired on the spot the first time she did it, but now he’s used to it. They both say it’s good for the staff, makes them responsible and so forth.”
“I shouldn’t feel safe, leaving it all to bits of girls,” Christine said.
“Oh, Nigel R. will be very much there, don’t you fret, and they aren’t all girls, some of them are quite elderly.”
“But if she gets this cold, worrying about it—” Christine knew about psychological ailments, thanks to many a tedious half-hour spent listening to her brother Garfield.
“Oh, she doesn’t get them over
that
.” Mrs. Traill’s tone had become meaningful and her expression what Christine called ‘
kind-of-churchy
’. “They’re an expression of subconscious resentment. She resents her job and wants to give it up and flop on some man.”
“Rubbish,” said Diana, beginning to peel a plum. “This time, whatever reason she gives for catching it, we all know what she’s worrying about.” She looked across at Fabia and nodded. “Ferenc Briggs. Nothing subconscious about him.”
Mrs. Traill sighed and looked distressed. “Poor sweetie, it is hard luck.”
“Not if you’re right, Fabia,” Diana said, and something in the gleam of her eye and the ring in her tone caused Christine, who was listening a little bemusedly, to let her eye wander to the fast-emptying second wine bottle. “If you’re right, she’ll be relieved when the break comes and Ferenc’s got her job. Then she can relax, and fall back into the arms of Peter—”
“He’d overbalance,” gurgled Mrs. Traill, refilling her glass and her friend’s.
“Well—Peter or someone. She’s always got a number of them floating
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