thought?” asked Sheila, tilting a glance.
Clare’s upper lip drew down to its glummest length. Her jaw sank into her chins. She returned no answer.
“Then really I think you should,” said the other earnestly.
“You mean, I’m in more of a spot than you are?”
“Oh, I should hardly say that”
“One thing I won’t do,” Clare blustered. “Come hell and high water, won’t do it. Won’t get myself snarled up in a law-court case. Fine old figure of fun I’d be made to look —and you too, also, my Rosy-Posy! Even apart from the fact that in point of law I doubt whether we’d have a leg to stand on.”
“How is she to know that? I didn’t mean bring a case, stupid (and nor did Trevor, to do him justice). I meant, threaten one. We could give her a fearful fright.”
“With a lawyer’s letter? If she’s still our Dicey, nothing short of a gun would.—Besides, damn it an, I still think she’s just being friendly!”
“Oh, yes?” The pointed tip of a tongue licked its way slowly round Sheila’s lips.
“Let me think!” Clare commanded.
“I’m not stopping you.”
Before thought took place, it became devolvent on Clare again to go through the act with a cigarette. This time, it miscarried—she choked, spluttered, while water from her smarting eyes made gutters out of the pouches under them. A mannish, also monogrammed handkerchief set about (when it could at last be come at) to make good the damage. Mrs. Artworth meanwhile examined her faultless fingernails. Yet the would-be smoker did, in a way, profit by her mishap: it gained time for her, also the mopping handkerchief hid the spasm by which her face was apt to betray thought. Once back in order, and after one steady puff (to show that it could be done), she announced: “Leave this to me—I’ve had an idea.”
“What ?”
“Leave that to me. Just wait.”
“Oh …” said Sheila, moodily, indecisively. Swooning back in her chair, to denote exhaustion, she nonetheless keenly searched the other one’s face. Though the prospect of handing over, of being quit of things, should have been grateful to Mrs. Artworth, it dissatisfied Sheila and thwarted Sheikie. “I can’t see,” she admitted, “why I should miss the fun, if there’s to be any.”
“Oh, there’ll be heaps.”
This was still ambiguous. “I hope it’s a good idea?—a quite nasty one? When I think of that fat little bossy beast…”
“Those were the days.”
“Well, go for her, Mumbo!”
The big woman, eyeing the pretty one with genuine fondness and affability, asked: “Ever had any?”
“Children? No, not—funnily enough,” Sheila said with aggressive lightness, an air less of regret than revived surprise. She added: “However, Trevor, by means best known to himself, had already two.”
“Wh-at?”
“What d’ you mean, ‘wha-at’?” asked the unblinking wife. “He’d been married before. Any objection? She was Phyllis Sissen—used to go to St. Monica’s, not St. Agatha’s. Fell off her bike if anyone yelled at her. I don’t think you met her.”
“When you found you required Trevor, you got her out?”
“She had died already. A chill, after German measles. Anyway, there you are.—What about you?”
“No issue. Ilie fact was, Mr. Wrong gave me but scant chance to show my form.” Clare’s eyebrows went up jaunty, came down lugubrious. Then she pondered. “Wonder if Dicey’s multiplied?”
Sheila shuddered.
She then asked: “What do I tell Trevor?”
“To hold his horses.”
Bill on salver, the waitress stood like a conscience. They were quite the last. Everything had been spirited away. But that outgoing footprints bruised the bloom of the carpet, there might never have been a soul here—stretching into the distance, the sea of tables was disembellished neither by crumb nor speck. Agoraphobia threatened. All that there was not yet was silence: in the void, the clatter of tea tray stacking and china piling and tea spoon
Clare’s upper lip drew down to its glummest length. Her jaw sank into her chins. She returned no answer.
“Then really I think you should,” said the other earnestly.
“You mean, I’m in more of a spot than you are?”
“Oh, I should hardly say that”
“One thing I won’t do,” Clare blustered. “Come hell and high water, won’t do it. Won’t get myself snarled up in a law-court case. Fine old figure of fun I’d be made to look —and you too, also, my Rosy-Posy! Even apart from the fact that in point of law I doubt whether we’d have a leg to stand on.”
“How is she to know that? I didn’t mean bring a case, stupid (and nor did Trevor, to do him justice). I meant, threaten one. We could give her a fearful fright.”
“With a lawyer’s letter? If she’s still our Dicey, nothing short of a gun would.—Besides, damn it an, I still think she’s just being friendly!”
“Oh, yes?” The pointed tip of a tongue licked its way slowly round Sheila’s lips.
“Let me think!” Clare commanded.
“I’m not stopping you.”
Before thought took place, it became devolvent on Clare again to go through the act with a cigarette. This time, it miscarried—she choked, spluttered, while water from her smarting eyes made gutters out of the pouches under them. A mannish, also monogrammed handkerchief set about (when it could at last be come at) to make good the damage. Mrs. Artworth meanwhile examined her faultless fingernails. Yet the would-be smoker did, in a way, profit by her mishap: it gained time for her, also the mopping handkerchief hid the spasm by which her face was apt to betray thought. Once back in order, and after one steady puff (to show that it could be done), she announced: “Leave this to me—I’ve had an idea.”
“What ?”
“Leave that to me. Just wait.”
“Oh …” said Sheila, moodily, indecisively. Swooning back in her chair, to denote exhaustion, she nonetheless keenly searched the other one’s face. Though the prospect of handing over, of being quit of things, should have been grateful to Mrs. Artworth, it dissatisfied Sheila and thwarted Sheikie. “I can’t see,” she admitted, “why I should miss the fun, if there’s to be any.”
“Oh, there’ll be heaps.”
This was still ambiguous. “I hope it’s a good idea?—a quite nasty one? When I think of that fat little bossy beast…”
“Those were the days.”
“Well, go for her, Mumbo!”
The big woman, eyeing the pretty one with genuine fondness and affability, asked: “Ever had any?”
“Children? No, not—funnily enough,” Sheila said with aggressive lightness, an air less of regret than revived surprise. She added: “However, Trevor, by means best known to himself, had already two.”
“Wh-at?”
“What d’ you mean, ‘wha-at’?” asked the unblinking wife. “He’d been married before. Any objection? She was Phyllis Sissen—used to go to St. Monica’s, not St. Agatha’s. Fell off her bike if anyone yelled at her. I don’t think you met her.”
“When you found you required Trevor, you got her out?”
“She had died already. A chill, after German measles. Anyway, there you are.—What about you?”
“No issue. Ilie fact was, Mr. Wrong gave me but scant chance to show my form.” Clare’s eyebrows went up jaunty, came down lugubrious. Then she pondered. “Wonder if Dicey’s multiplied?”
Sheila shuddered.
She then asked: “What do I tell Trevor?”
“To hold his horses.”
Bill on salver, the waitress stood like a conscience. They were quite the last. Everything had been spirited away. But that outgoing footprints bruised the bloom of the carpet, there might never have been a soul here—stretching into the distance, the sea of tables was disembellished neither by crumb nor speck. Agoraphobia threatened. All that there was not yet was silence: in the void, the clatter of tea tray stacking and china piling and tea spoon
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