little pattern-girls of them. Victorian women (her own family boasted a matriarch or so in every generation) had never been highly educated, and no one could accuse them of lacking character and energy!
As for Meg, she was quite progressive enough.
However, this time she had an answer for Marion. She could write that in January Louise and Jenny would begin attending the school attached to the nearby Convent— where the education is excellent, as it always is at convents .
No doubt Marion, who was a robust T.C.P. (or Twentieth Century Pagan) would deplore the religious atmosphere in which her nieces were to be steeped, but she must just deplore.
Then Alda turned to the last letter, which was written in a backward-sloping hand.
Darling Alda,
I expect you are settled in the new house by now. I am down at Worthing for a few days (br-r-r! in this weather!) to see Aunt Alice who has been ill again, and it would be lovely if you could meet me for tea at Horsham on my way home. Do write at once and fix an Olde Tea Shoppe or somewhere where we can meet. I have got a doll’s coatee for Jenny and a book for Louise and some sweets for Meggy. Kiss them all for me. It ’ s all off, I ’ m afraid . All news when we meet.
Loads of love
from
Jean.
“Who’s that from?” inquired Jenny, looking over her mother’s shoulder.
“Jean.” (The young Lucie-Brownes had so many true aunts that the courtesy “auntie” of an earlier generation was never applied to their mother’s friends.)
“What’s ‘all off’?” Jenny went on. “Isn’t she going to marry Mr. Potter?”
“Who said she was going to?” said Alda, putting the letter away.
“You did. I heard you. When we were at Lyle Villas.”
“And before that you said she was going to marry Captain Roberts.” Louise was nibbling the end of a paint-brush and staring at Alda with huge pensive eyes.
“Dear me!” exclaimed her mother sarcastically. “What was Mr. Parker called in the bosom of his family?”
“Nosey!” they cried together.
“No-sey!” crowed Meg, and rushed round the room shaking her head and screwing up her eyes and muttering, “Nosey—nosey—nosey—nosey—nosey!”
“No, but you did say she was going to. Truly, Mother.”
“Well, she isn’t now. Clear those things off the table, please, and then you can set the lunch for me.”
“ Why doesn’t she marry someone, Mother?” asked Louise, obediently beginning to pack up her paint-box.
“She hasn’t found anyone she likes, I expect. Hurry up, now.”
5
“AND THEN NOT another word for three weeks! Not even a tinkle to ask if my cold was better! I didn’t know quite what to do——”
“Oh Jean, you didn’t telephone him?”
“Of course not, darling. I remembered your advice and was firm with myself. But I did just send him a book by Peter Cheyney.”
“Good heavens! Sent it to him as a present ?”
“Of course not; only lent it to him. He’d been dying to read it and couldn’t get it anywhere. I just put in a casual, friendly little note with it. And then, believe it or not, another long silence! And still I didn’t ring him up. Wasn’t I good?”
“You did all the right things—or nearly all,” admitted Alda.
“Oh yes, I did all the right things,” said Jean Hardcastle, without irony. “At last, on October the seventeenth, the book came back with a letter. He apologised for not having given me a tinkle before, but his firm had put him on another back-room job (it all came out in the papers the other day, Operation Achilles it was called, I expect you saw it) and he’d been fearfully busy. He said we must meet again soon, and signed himself Yours ever Oliver Potter . Now, darling, what do you make of that?”
She paused and hastily ate some cake, keeping her eyes fixed pleadingly upon her friend’s face.
A smart hat sat surprisingly upon her innocent brow but it made no difference: everything recommended by the experts in the women’s magazines to
As for Meg, she was quite progressive enough.
However, this time she had an answer for Marion. She could write that in January Louise and Jenny would begin attending the school attached to the nearby Convent— where the education is excellent, as it always is at convents .
No doubt Marion, who was a robust T.C.P. (or Twentieth Century Pagan) would deplore the religious atmosphere in which her nieces were to be steeped, but she must just deplore.
Then Alda turned to the last letter, which was written in a backward-sloping hand.
Darling Alda,
I expect you are settled in the new house by now. I am down at Worthing for a few days (br-r-r! in this weather!) to see Aunt Alice who has been ill again, and it would be lovely if you could meet me for tea at Horsham on my way home. Do write at once and fix an Olde Tea Shoppe or somewhere where we can meet. I have got a doll’s coatee for Jenny and a book for Louise and some sweets for Meggy. Kiss them all for me. It ’ s all off, I ’ m afraid . All news when we meet.
Loads of love
from
Jean.
“Who’s that from?” inquired Jenny, looking over her mother’s shoulder.
“Jean.” (The young Lucie-Brownes had so many true aunts that the courtesy “auntie” of an earlier generation was never applied to their mother’s friends.)
“What’s ‘all off’?” Jenny went on. “Isn’t she going to marry Mr. Potter?”
“Who said she was going to?” said Alda, putting the letter away.
“You did. I heard you. When we were at Lyle Villas.”
“And before that you said she was going to marry Captain Roberts.” Louise was nibbling the end of a paint-brush and staring at Alda with huge pensive eyes.
“Dear me!” exclaimed her mother sarcastically. “What was Mr. Parker called in the bosom of his family?”
“Nosey!” they cried together.
“No-sey!” crowed Meg, and rushed round the room shaking her head and screwing up her eyes and muttering, “Nosey—nosey—nosey—nosey—nosey!”
“No, but you did say she was going to. Truly, Mother.”
“Well, she isn’t now. Clear those things off the table, please, and then you can set the lunch for me.”
“ Why doesn’t she marry someone, Mother?” asked Louise, obediently beginning to pack up her paint-box.
“She hasn’t found anyone she likes, I expect. Hurry up, now.”
5
“AND THEN NOT another word for three weeks! Not even a tinkle to ask if my cold was better! I didn’t know quite what to do——”
“Oh Jean, you didn’t telephone him?”
“Of course not, darling. I remembered your advice and was firm with myself. But I did just send him a book by Peter Cheyney.”
“Good heavens! Sent it to him as a present ?”
“Of course not; only lent it to him. He’d been dying to read it and couldn’t get it anywhere. I just put in a casual, friendly little note with it. And then, believe it or not, another long silence! And still I didn’t ring him up. Wasn’t I good?”
“You did all the right things—or nearly all,” admitted Alda.
“Oh yes, I did all the right things,” said Jean Hardcastle, without irony. “At last, on October the seventeenth, the book came back with a letter. He apologised for not having given me a tinkle before, but his firm had put him on another back-room job (it all came out in the papers the other day, Operation Achilles it was called, I expect you saw it) and he’d been fearfully busy. He said we must meet again soon, and signed himself Yours ever Oliver Potter . Now, darling, what do you make of that?”
She paused and hastily ate some cake, keeping her eyes fixed pleadingly upon her friend’s face.
A smart hat sat surprisingly upon her innocent brow but it made no difference: everything recommended by the experts in the women’s magazines to
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