around.”
“Clive,” droned Mrs. Traill, so quietly that Christine was not quite sure she had heard the name.
“Don’t tell me that’s starting up again!” Diana said sharply, widening the turquoises.
“Oh, I think so. Didn’t you notice various things this evening?”
“No, I did not. It’s all your artistic imagination—I hope to God not, anyway. Shall you ever forget the time we all had? I did think—you know—when I heard he was coming here—jolly good having old Clive around, but if she’s going to be here too—”
Mrs. Traill only nodded, and seemed suddenly to realise that Christine was looking from one lined, lively face to the other, as the talk went on, with the absorbed expression of a spectator at a tennis match.
“What a heavenly colour,” Mrs. Traill observed, just touching the largest of the bloomy plums in their plaited wicker basket. “True amber.”
“I’m glad you like them, I got them in the Village,” Christine said eagerly. “Two-and-three the pound. Expensive, I know, but the flavour’s good, isn’t it?”
“Delicious.” Diana gave a small yawn. “And so was the salad. Congratulations. Of course, you can’t go wrong if you pay enough for steak.”
Christine felt gratified. She dismissed the little dig by reminding herself of Mr. Lucas at Lloyd and Farmer’s, for whom nothing that had ever gone right had done so because of someone’s individual effort. Mrs. Meredith was going to be the one to complain, if anyone did.
Christine’s salad had been chosen from a booklet called
Twenty Salads That Are Different
, given away with a woman’s magazine she took in which encouraged its readers to make their cookery exciting, in face of a steely resistance from husbands who preferred it dull.
She had always enjoyed reading these recipes. At Mortimer Road, appetite had been governed by a mysterious quality called Fancy (dimly related, possibly, to what it was always telling people to do, though there was precious little Fancy flitting about those rooms) and sometimes you couldn’t Fancy an apparently tasty piece of haddock or came home with a huge sickly pastry because you just Fancied it. In general, food was pushed about on plates and a surprisingly large amount of it was wasted. Tea, of course, had a place of its own; should you suffer from any minor disablement that left you without a relish for tea, this was regarded seriously—“
Even tea
didn’t taste right.”
Diana refilled their glasses, passing over Christine’s at a murmur of “Oh—no more for me, thank you—I couldn’t.”
“That’s what comes of that kind of relationship, of course,” said Mrs. Traill, with her full glass held at her lips, looking pensively over the top. “Antonia and Nigel R., I mean. It’s all right for twenty years because their—their individual oddities happen to fit in, and then suddenly along comes someone like Ferenc and bowls Nigel over and Antonia’s had it, both as a woman
and
as a designer.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t care as a woman, Fabia. She’s very fond of Nigel R. but she isn’t blind to his what you call oddities; I’ve heard her laughing at them.”
“Perhaps not, but she jolly well cares as a designer. And it’s all the worse because she thinks Ferenc is a bad designer. Her pride’s hurt and she’s afraid of the future—she’s our age remember—and I’m sure she’s afraid for the House of Rooth, too. She thinks Ferenc’s going to ruin it.”
“He won’t necessarily. I like Antonia’s things, as you know, and I like Nigel’s whole style. He makes clothes for ladies. But we’re getting to be an extinct race.” Diana refilled their glasses, “and he’ll have to keep up with the times or go under. Ferenc will keep him ‘with it’. I don’t see why he should ‘ruin’ anything.”
“Perhaps she’d sooner it
was
ruined than take second place as a designer and see Nigel Rooth’s swamped by kooky clothes.”
“Then she’s
“Clive,” droned Mrs. Traill, so quietly that Christine was not quite sure she had heard the name.
“Don’t tell me that’s starting up again!” Diana said sharply, widening the turquoises.
“Oh, I think so. Didn’t you notice various things this evening?”
“No, I did not. It’s all your artistic imagination—I hope to God not, anyway. Shall you ever forget the time we all had? I did think—you know—when I heard he was coming here—jolly good having old Clive around, but if she’s going to be here too—”
Mrs. Traill only nodded, and seemed suddenly to realise that Christine was looking from one lined, lively face to the other, as the talk went on, with the absorbed expression of a spectator at a tennis match.
“What a heavenly colour,” Mrs. Traill observed, just touching the largest of the bloomy plums in their plaited wicker basket. “True amber.”
“I’m glad you like them, I got them in the Village,” Christine said eagerly. “Two-and-three the pound. Expensive, I know, but the flavour’s good, isn’t it?”
“Delicious.” Diana gave a small yawn. “And so was the salad. Congratulations. Of course, you can’t go wrong if you pay enough for steak.”
Christine felt gratified. She dismissed the little dig by reminding herself of Mr. Lucas at Lloyd and Farmer’s, for whom nothing that had ever gone right had done so because of someone’s individual effort. Mrs. Meredith was going to be the one to complain, if anyone did.
Christine’s salad had been chosen from a booklet called
Twenty Salads That Are Different
, given away with a woman’s magazine she took in which encouraged its readers to make their cookery exciting, in face of a steely resistance from husbands who preferred it dull.
She had always enjoyed reading these recipes. At Mortimer Road, appetite had been governed by a mysterious quality called Fancy (dimly related, possibly, to what it was always telling people to do, though there was precious little Fancy flitting about those rooms) and sometimes you couldn’t Fancy an apparently tasty piece of haddock or came home with a huge sickly pastry because you just Fancied it. In general, food was pushed about on plates and a surprisingly large amount of it was wasted. Tea, of course, had a place of its own; should you suffer from any minor disablement that left you without a relish for tea, this was regarded seriously—“
Even tea
didn’t taste right.”
Diana refilled their glasses, passing over Christine’s at a murmur of “Oh—no more for me, thank you—I couldn’t.”
“That’s what comes of that kind of relationship, of course,” said Mrs. Traill, with her full glass held at her lips, looking pensively over the top. “Antonia and Nigel R., I mean. It’s all right for twenty years because their—their individual oddities happen to fit in, and then suddenly along comes someone like Ferenc and bowls Nigel over and Antonia’s had it, both as a woman
and
as a designer.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t care as a woman, Fabia. She’s very fond of Nigel R. but she isn’t blind to his what you call oddities; I’ve heard her laughing at them.”
“Perhaps not, but she jolly well cares as a designer. And it’s all the worse because she thinks Ferenc is a bad designer. Her pride’s hurt and she’s afraid of the future—she’s our age remember—and I’m sure she’s afraid for the House of Rooth, too. She thinks Ferenc’s going to ruin it.”
“He won’t necessarily. I like Antonia’s things, as you know, and I like Nigel’s whole style. He makes clothes for ladies. But we’re getting to be an extinct race.” Diana refilled their glasses, “and he’ll have to keep up with the times or go under. Ferenc will keep him ‘with it’. I don’t see why he should ‘ruin’ anything.”
“Perhaps she’d sooner it
was
ruined than take second place as a designer and see Nigel Rooth’s swamped by kooky clothes.”
“Then she’s
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