extravagant."
"Mother? Extravagant? She never spends a brass farthing on herself."
"But she never stops entertaining. Her food and drink bills must be astronomical. And that ridiculous conservatory she built at the cottage. George tried to dissuade her. She'd have been much better off spending the money on double glazing."
"Perhaps she didn't want double glazing."
"You refuse to be concerned, don't you?" Nancy's voice shook with indignation. "To consider the possibilities?"
"And what are the possibilities, Nancy? Enlighten me."
"She could live to be ninety."
"I hope she does."
"Her capital won't last forever."
Olivia's eyes glittered with amusement. "Are you and George afraid of being left with a destitute, dependent parent on your hands? Yet another drain on your finances after you've paid the upkeep of that barn of a house, and wheeled your children off to the most expensive schools?"
"How we choose to spend our money is none of your affair."
"And how Mumma chooses to spend hers is none of your business."
This retort silenced Nancy. Turning from Olivia, she con-centrated her attention on her veal. Olivia, watching her, saw the colour rise in her sister's cheeks, the slight tremor of mouth and jowl. For God's sake, she thought, she's only forty-three, and she looks a fat, pathetic, old woman. She was filled suddenly with pity for Nancy and a certain guilt, and found herself saying, in a more kindly and encouraging tone, "I shouldn't worry too much if I were you. She got a socking price for Oakley Street, and there's a good chunk of that still to go, even after buying Podmore's Thatch. I don't suppose old Lawrence Stern realized it, but with one thing and another, he really left her quite comfortably off. Which was just as well for you and me and Noel, because, let's face it, our father was never anything, financially, but a dead loss. . . ."
Nancy, all at once, realized that she had come to the end of her rope. She was exhausted with argument, and she hated it when Olivia spoke of darling Daddy in that way. Under normal circumstances she would have sprung to the defence of that dear, dead man. But now, she hadn't the energy. The meeting with Olivia had been a total waste of time. Nothing had been decided —about Mother, or money, or housekeepers, or anything; Olivia, as always, had talked rings around her, and now had left Nancy feeling as though she had been run over by a steamroller.
Lawrence Stern.
The delicious meal was over. Olivia glanced at her watch, and asked Nancy if she'd like coffee. Nancy asked if there was time, and Olivia said yes, she'd got another five minutes, so Nancy said she would, and Olivia ordered coffee; and Nancy, reluctantly putting out of her mind images of the delicious pud-dings she had spied on the sweet trolley, reached out for the Harpers and Queen she had bought for the train and which lay now on the padded velvet seat beside her.
"Have you seen this?"
She leafed through the pages until she came to the Boothby's advertisement, and handed the magazine to her sister. Olivia glanced at it and nodded. "Yes, I did see it. It's coming up for sale next Wednesday."
"Isn't it extraordinary?" Nancy took the magazine back. "To think any person should want to buy a horror like that?"
"Nancy, I can assure you, a lot of people want to buy a horror like that."
"You have to be joking."
"Certainly not." Seeing her sister's genuine bewilderment, Olivia laughed. "Oh, Nancy, where have you and George been these last few years? There's been an enormous resurgence of interest in Victorian painting. Lawrence Stern, Alma-Tadema, John William Waterhouse . . . they're commanding enormous sums in the art dealers' sales."
Nancy studied the gloomy Water Carriers with what she hoped was a new eye. It didn't make any difference. "But why?" she persisted.
Olivia shrugged. "A new appreciation of their technique. Rarity
"Mother? Extravagant? She never spends a brass farthing on herself."
"But she never stops entertaining. Her food and drink bills must be astronomical. And that ridiculous conservatory she built at the cottage. George tried to dissuade her. She'd have been much better off spending the money on double glazing."
"Perhaps she didn't want double glazing."
"You refuse to be concerned, don't you?" Nancy's voice shook with indignation. "To consider the possibilities?"
"And what are the possibilities, Nancy? Enlighten me."
"She could live to be ninety."
"I hope she does."
"Her capital won't last forever."
Olivia's eyes glittered with amusement. "Are you and George afraid of being left with a destitute, dependent parent on your hands? Yet another drain on your finances after you've paid the upkeep of that barn of a house, and wheeled your children off to the most expensive schools?"
"How we choose to spend our money is none of your affair."
"And how Mumma chooses to spend hers is none of your business."
This retort silenced Nancy. Turning from Olivia, she con-centrated her attention on her veal. Olivia, watching her, saw the colour rise in her sister's cheeks, the slight tremor of mouth and jowl. For God's sake, she thought, she's only forty-three, and she looks a fat, pathetic, old woman. She was filled suddenly with pity for Nancy and a certain guilt, and found herself saying, in a more kindly and encouraging tone, "I shouldn't worry too much if I were you. She got a socking price for Oakley Street, and there's a good chunk of that still to go, even after buying Podmore's Thatch. I don't suppose old Lawrence Stern realized it, but with one thing and another, he really left her quite comfortably off. Which was just as well for you and me and Noel, because, let's face it, our father was never anything, financially, but a dead loss. . . ."
Nancy, all at once, realized that she had come to the end of her rope. She was exhausted with argument, and she hated it when Olivia spoke of darling Daddy in that way. Under normal circumstances she would have sprung to the defence of that dear, dead man. But now, she hadn't the energy. The meeting with Olivia had been a total waste of time. Nothing had been decided —about Mother, or money, or housekeepers, or anything; Olivia, as always, had talked rings around her, and now had left Nancy feeling as though she had been run over by a steamroller.
Lawrence Stern.
The delicious meal was over. Olivia glanced at her watch, and asked Nancy if she'd like coffee. Nancy asked if there was time, and Olivia said yes, she'd got another five minutes, so Nancy said she would, and Olivia ordered coffee; and Nancy, reluctantly putting out of her mind images of the delicious pud-dings she had spied on the sweet trolley, reached out for the Harpers and Queen she had bought for the train and which lay now on the padded velvet seat beside her.
"Have you seen this?"
She leafed through the pages until she came to the Boothby's advertisement, and handed the magazine to her sister. Olivia glanced at it and nodded. "Yes, I did see it. It's coming up for sale next Wednesday."
"Isn't it extraordinary?" Nancy took the magazine back. "To think any person should want to buy a horror like that?"
"Nancy, I can assure you, a lot of people want to buy a horror like that."
"You have to be joking."
"Certainly not." Seeing her sister's genuine bewilderment, Olivia laughed. "Oh, Nancy, where have you and George been these last few years? There's been an enormous resurgence of interest in Victorian painting. Lawrence Stern, Alma-Tadema, John William Waterhouse . . . they're commanding enormous sums in the art dealers' sales."
Nancy studied the gloomy Water Carriers with what she hoped was a new eye. It didn't make any difference. "But why?" she persisted.
Olivia shrugged. "A new appreciation of their technique. Rarity
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