very immature, isn’t she? But, of course we both know that about our Antonia. She’s very immature. I don’t agree with you about her longing to retire; I think she adores it and it’s her whole life—”
“And
I
think she won’t face the fact that she’s simply dying to settle down and have some man take care of her.”
The last words floated rather than sounded, on the warm, drowsing air of the old room. Christine felt a faint sensation, too far-off, too slight, to be named pain. Diana was leaning back, looking thoughtfully down into her glass.
“It’s just a question of finding the right man,” said Mrs. Traill, wagging her head. She turned her large, now gently-swimming eyes slowly on Christine. “We don’t want to make a mystery out of anything,” she went on. “Darling Antonia, Miss Marriott, doesn’t like being—er—married.” She giggled abruptly.
Mortimer Road was for the moment completely in charge of its child, and all that Christine could offer was a small nod while she tried to keep her mouth from falling open. You read about such things, of course. But she was Miss Marriott. Oh, perhaps that was only the name she used in business, like Miss Owen at Lloyd and Farmer’s who had really been Mrs. Jones? But how did they know she didn’t like it? This lot seemed to know everything about each other. And who, if she was married, was she married to? And where was he? Or, perhaps she’s divorced. That’s it, Christine thought.
Mrs. Traill was sipping from her refilled glass and going on with the head-wagging.
“It’s prevented her from being quite normal—”
“Everybody isn’t like you, darling,” Diana struck in, on a note of pure—could it be spite? Christine stared at her. “I still think a lot of it’s due to that ghastly mother of hers.”
“Oh now, Diana. I’ve always rather liked Mrs. Marriott.”
“She encourages people to be shallow and frivolous—”
“Hark who’s talking! Who won’t even
discuss
apartheid?”
“I won’t discuss it because there’s nothing to discuss. Unless you’ve actually
lived
in Africa …”
Suddenly there sounded a long peal on the front-door bell, conveying an immediate impression of urgency and despair. Mrs. Traill started, spilling her wine, and said resignedly, “There she is.”
“You gave her a key, surely? She is an old ass.”
“She’ll have lost it.” Mrs. Traill was beginning hastily to carve slices of the big tinned tongue that Christine had laid in as a week-end standby.
“And that’s a waste of time,” Diana pointed out. “She’ll only want hot rum.”
“Is there any?”
“How should I know?” She shrugged. “Sure to be, I should think—James brought some of everything that’s bottled, for that place of his.”
Christine now looked with interest towards the door. Through it, after a prelude of slow steps descending stairs, came, in a touching procession—Clive, James, a youngish-elderly man with a silly pink face, and a tall shape wrapped in glorious mink, diffusing an aroma of eucalyptus from a huge paper handkerchief held to its nose.
“Here she is,” James proclaimed tenderly.
The youngish elderly man leapt a little way in the air and made exuberant gestures of greeting towards Mrs. Traill and Mrs. Meredith, which they returned with an air of being used to him and not all that glad to see him. There now settled over the kitchen an atmosphere suggesting that someone desperately ill had arrived at a log-cabin in the middle of a blizzard.
“Darling!” cried Mrs. Traill softly, “what appalling luck! Is it one of your very bad ones?”
The handkerchief oscillated, as the head, covered in big loops of ashy-glittering hair, feebly nodded. Clive, guiding her by an arm encircling the mink, settled her in a chair.
“James, is there any rum?” he asked importantly.
“Rum …” breathed a husky voice “… best thing.”
“Yes, darling, right now … Christine, the kettle … Clive,
“And
I
think she won’t face the fact that she’s simply dying to settle down and have some man take care of her.”
The last words floated rather than sounded, on the warm, drowsing air of the old room. Christine felt a faint sensation, too far-off, too slight, to be named pain. Diana was leaning back, looking thoughtfully down into her glass.
“It’s just a question of finding the right man,” said Mrs. Traill, wagging her head. She turned her large, now gently-swimming eyes slowly on Christine. “We don’t want to make a mystery out of anything,” she went on. “Darling Antonia, Miss Marriott, doesn’t like being—er—married.” She giggled abruptly.
Mortimer Road was for the moment completely in charge of its child, and all that Christine could offer was a small nod while she tried to keep her mouth from falling open. You read about such things, of course. But she was Miss Marriott. Oh, perhaps that was only the name she used in business, like Miss Owen at Lloyd and Farmer’s who had really been Mrs. Jones? But how did they know she didn’t like it? This lot seemed to know everything about each other. And who, if she was married, was she married to? And where was he? Or, perhaps she’s divorced. That’s it, Christine thought.
Mrs. Traill was sipping from her refilled glass and going on with the head-wagging.
“It’s prevented her from being quite normal—”
“Everybody isn’t like you, darling,” Diana struck in, on a note of pure—could it be spite? Christine stared at her. “I still think a lot of it’s due to that ghastly mother of hers.”
“Oh now, Diana. I’ve always rather liked Mrs. Marriott.”
“She encourages people to be shallow and frivolous—”
“Hark who’s talking! Who won’t even
discuss
apartheid?”
“I won’t discuss it because there’s nothing to discuss. Unless you’ve actually
lived
in Africa …”
Suddenly there sounded a long peal on the front-door bell, conveying an immediate impression of urgency and despair. Mrs. Traill started, spilling her wine, and said resignedly, “There she is.”
“You gave her a key, surely? She is an old ass.”
“She’ll have lost it.” Mrs. Traill was beginning hastily to carve slices of the big tinned tongue that Christine had laid in as a week-end standby.
“And that’s a waste of time,” Diana pointed out. “She’ll only want hot rum.”
“Is there any?”
“How should I know?” She shrugged. “Sure to be, I should think—James brought some of everything that’s bottled, for that place of his.”
Christine now looked with interest towards the door. Through it, after a prelude of slow steps descending stairs, came, in a touching procession—Clive, James, a youngish-elderly man with a silly pink face, and a tall shape wrapped in glorious mink, diffusing an aroma of eucalyptus from a huge paper handkerchief held to its nose.
“Here she is,” James proclaimed tenderly.
The youngish elderly man leapt a little way in the air and made exuberant gestures of greeting towards Mrs. Traill and Mrs. Meredith, which they returned with an air of being used to him and not all that glad to see him. There now settled over the kitchen an atmosphere suggesting that someone desperately ill had arrived at a log-cabin in the middle of a blizzard.
“Darling!” cried Mrs. Traill softly, “what appalling luck! Is it one of your very bad ones?”
The handkerchief oscillated, as the head, covered in big loops of ashy-glittering hair, feebly nodded. Clive, guiding her by an arm encircling the mink, settled her in a chair.
“James, is there any rum?” he asked importantly.
“Rum …” breathed a husky voice “… best thing.”
“Yes, darling, right now … Christine, the kettle … Clive,
Similar Books
