complaint. “Yes, I know we do have the day, and there’s my house— there, though, I’m so constantly overrun: wait till you see! So if you knew with what care I’d devised this plan—you and me, in my car, for the whole drive home. That’s what I’ve looked forward to! As it is, we shall be a ghastly procession.”
“Hum-ha, yes: could have been nice. Anyway, let’s have a breather?”
“Budge, then—let me out. Let’s sit in the sun.”
Clare, watching Dinah’s length snake out of the Hillman, remarked: “Fancy you growing into a daddylonglegs!”
Dinah looked down at herself, brushed ash from her slacks. “Yes, haven’t I!” In accord, facing towards the signposts, they walked a pace or two, mounted the grass verge, and sat themselves on a wall. From above, around, poured on to them the not wholly untender or hostile noon. The rumpus, during whose course they had truly met, left its benevolent influence behind. Dinah crossed her knees and, clasping the top one, rocked some way back and looked up at the sky; then, with much the same pensive idleness, round at Clare—who, bolt upright, unbuttoned her fitted coat. If Dinah’s regard more rested upon than considered the newfound Clare, Clare’s in return (out of habit?) was inventorial. “Yes, improved,” she admitted, in an as-though-grudging tone.
“Haven’t I! Apparently I was a most hideous child, so that’s just as well. It’s nice to look nice.”
“Must be.”
“But you look splendid, Mumbo!” Dinah cried, surprised that anything else could be thought for a moment. She rocked further back on the wall, then sat up with a beatific sigh. “You’re glad, after all, we did gallivant out here?” she began to wheedle—but then broke off. “Look, oh do look, at those hundreds of birds! Off to Africa, can’t make up their minds to start. All that organization, and all for nothing. What a dither they’re in!—No, over there!”
In movement the birds were like shaken silk. At them, Clare did consent to stare: of the universe they transparently shadowed she would have nothing. Her known objection to scenery had been hardened by years which had shown her how sound it was. By now, she resisted many things; or, should she fail to, acted as though she did by affecting an extra nonchalance or jocosity. To be sardonic could be a refuge also. Count on Dicey, she thought, to lay on no scene without towering stage-effects. Meet in a railway station? Oh no, never. Or on a doorstep, or in a room, or even a bar. Nor might one merely meet, one had to converge—and in the middle of what? This great aching landscape. And what had she lifted this out of? Thomas Hardy … No, though: wait a minute—was not an older nigger in this woodpile? “This,” Clare remarked, in what Mrs. Artworth would have called a distinctly peculiar tone, “could be quite a Macbeth meeting-place, could it not?”
“Bubble-bubble,” Dinah said instantaneously. “Not quite a heath, this, or exactly the weather, but near enough. The main thing wrong is, being one short. First Witch, Hail. Second Witch, Hail. Third Witch … ? I can’t understand her letting us down like this. When one thinks, I went to a lot of trouble!”
“And made it.”
Dinah went on, unheeding: “No, it’s been most mysterious about Sheikie: she never answered. You saw her— how did she seem?”
“Sore.”
“Said so?”
“You’ve made her life hell.”
“What absolute nonsense!”
“Come off it, Dicey! She has her life, and she has to live.”
“Then why marry that house agent?”
“She more or less was one.”
“Sheikie?—Dust to dust, I suppose, then, ashes to ashes: that’s not my fault!—She didn’t sound sore when she wrote, though. The way she wrote, butter wouldn’t melt.”
“Wrote?”
“What’s up?—don’t fall off the wall! Yes, she naturally wrote, why shouldn’t she? You did. Hers came three-four days after yours. Rather slow off the mark, I thought,
“Hum-ha, yes: could have been nice. Anyway, let’s have a breather?”
“Budge, then—let me out. Let’s sit in the sun.”
Clare, watching Dinah’s length snake out of the Hillman, remarked: “Fancy you growing into a daddylonglegs!”
Dinah looked down at herself, brushed ash from her slacks. “Yes, haven’t I!” In accord, facing towards the signposts, they walked a pace or two, mounted the grass verge, and sat themselves on a wall. From above, around, poured on to them the not wholly untender or hostile noon. The rumpus, during whose course they had truly met, left its benevolent influence behind. Dinah crossed her knees and, clasping the top one, rocked some way back and looked up at the sky; then, with much the same pensive idleness, round at Clare—who, bolt upright, unbuttoned her fitted coat. If Dinah’s regard more rested upon than considered the newfound Clare, Clare’s in return (out of habit?) was inventorial. “Yes, improved,” she admitted, in an as-though-grudging tone.
“Haven’t I! Apparently I was a most hideous child, so that’s just as well. It’s nice to look nice.”
“Must be.”
“But you look splendid, Mumbo!” Dinah cried, surprised that anything else could be thought for a moment. She rocked further back on the wall, then sat up with a beatific sigh. “You’re glad, after all, we did gallivant out here?” she began to wheedle—but then broke off. “Look, oh do look, at those hundreds of birds! Off to Africa, can’t make up their minds to start. All that organization, and all for nothing. What a dither they’re in!—No, over there!”
In movement the birds were like shaken silk. At them, Clare did consent to stare: of the universe they transparently shadowed she would have nothing. Her known objection to scenery had been hardened by years which had shown her how sound it was. By now, she resisted many things; or, should she fail to, acted as though she did by affecting an extra nonchalance or jocosity. To be sardonic could be a refuge also. Count on Dicey, she thought, to lay on no scene without towering stage-effects. Meet in a railway station? Oh no, never. Or on a doorstep, or in a room, or even a bar. Nor might one merely meet, one had to converge—and in the middle of what? This great aching landscape. And what had she lifted this out of? Thomas Hardy … No, though: wait a minute—was not an older nigger in this woodpile? “This,” Clare remarked, in what Mrs. Artworth would have called a distinctly peculiar tone, “could be quite a Macbeth meeting-place, could it not?”
“Bubble-bubble,” Dinah said instantaneously. “Not quite a heath, this, or exactly the weather, but near enough. The main thing wrong is, being one short. First Witch, Hail. Second Witch, Hail. Third Witch … ? I can’t understand her letting us down like this. When one thinks, I went to a lot of trouble!”
“And made it.”
Dinah went on, unheeding: “No, it’s been most mysterious about Sheikie: she never answered. You saw her— how did she seem?”
“Sore.”
“Said so?”
“You’ve made her life hell.”
“What absolute nonsense!”
“Come off it, Dicey! She has her life, and she has to live.”
“Then why marry that house agent?”
“She more or less was one.”
“Sheikie?—Dust to dust, I suppose, then, ashes to ashes: that’s not my fault!—She didn’t sound sore when she wrote, though. The way she wrote, butter wouldn’t melt.”
“Wrote?”
“What’s up?—don’t fall off the wall! Yes, she naturally wrote, why shouldn’t she? You did. Hers came three-four days after yours. Rather slow off the mark, I thought,
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