candidly.’
‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘Tell me it’s none of my business.’
‘Well, there’s a man who’s coming to dinner tonight that I think likes my mother a lot,’ she said, and a sense of betrayal discoloured the following seconds.
‘Is this Harry?’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, feeling her shame still more.
‘The man who gave you the gramophone.’
‘Oh, yes, well he’s given us all kinds of things. He’s given Hubert a gun, and . . . lots of things. The Complete Works of Sheridan.’
‘I imagine Huey might appreciate some of these gifts rather more than others,’ said Cecil, again familiar and casual.
‘Well . . . He gave me a dressing set, with a scent bottle, which I’m not old enough for, and silver-backed brushes.’
‘He sounds like Father Christmas,’ said Cecil; and with a hint of boredom, looking round, ‘What a jolly fellow.’
‘Hmm. He’s very generous, I suppose, but he’s not a bit jolly. You’ll see.’ She glanced up at him, still strangely indignant both with him and with Harry, but he was gazing at the top of the spinney, where they’d met last night, as if at something much more intriguing. ‘He goes to Germany a great deal, he does import-export, you know. He brings us back things.’
‘And you think all these presents are his way of . . . paying court to your mamma,’ said Cecil.
‘I fear so.’
Cecil’s splendid profile, the autocratic nose and slightly bulbous eye, seemed poised for judgement; but when he turned and smiled she felt the sudden return of his attention and kindness. ‘But, my dear child, you’ve no need to fear unless you think she returns his feelings.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . . !’ She was flustered, by having come so far, and by this unexpected word child , which was what her mother herself called her, quite naturally, though often with a hint of criticism. She had got it last night, once or twice, when she was trying to make Cecil feel at home and asking him questions. He must have heard her say it. Now she felt some not quite nice rhetorical advantage had been taken of her – he’d humbled her at the very moment he was meant to be cheering her up.
Cecil smiled. ‘I tell you what. I’ll have a good look at him, as a total outsider, and let you know what I think.’
‘All right . . .’ said Daphne, not at all sure about this compromise.
‘Ah!’ said Cecil, sitting forward in his chair. George was coming across the lawn, his jacket hooked over his shoulder, and whistling cheerily. Then he stood looking down at them, with a question hidden somewhere in his smile.
‘What is that thing you’re always whistling?’ said Daphne.
‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘It’s a song my gyp sings, “When I sees you, my heart goes boomps-a-daisy”.’
‘Really . . . ! I’d have thought if you had to whistle, you’d have chosen something nice,’ and seeing a chance to bring them all back to the subject of last night – ‘such as The Flying Dutchman , for instance.’
George pressed his hand to his heart and started on the lovely part of Senta’s Ballad, staring at her with his eyebrows raised and slowly shaking his head, as if to throw his own self-consciousness over to her. He had a sweet high swooping whistle, but he put in so much vibrato he made the song sound rather silly, and soon he couldn’t keep his lips together and the whistle became a breathy laugh.
‘Hah . . .’ muttered Cecil, seeming slightly uncomfortable, standing up and slipping his notebook into his jacket pocket. Then, with a cold smile, ‘No . . . I can’t whistle, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, with your tin ear!’ said Daphne.
‘I’m just going to take this precious book inside,’ he said, holding up Daphne’s little album. And they watched him cross the lawn and go in by the garden door.
‘So what were you talking about to Cess?’ said George, looking down at her again with his funny smile.
She picked over the grass in
‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘Tell me it’s none of my business.’
‘Well, there’s a man who’s coming to dinner tonight that I think likes my mother a lot,’ she said, and a sense of betrayal discoloured the following seconds.
‘Is this Harry?’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, feeling her shame still more.
‘The man who gave you the gramophone.’
‘Oh, yes, well he’s given us all kinds of things. He’s given Hubert a gun, and . . . lots of things. The Complete Works of Sheridan.’
‘I imagine Huey might appreciate some of these gifts rather more than others,’ said Cecil, again familiar and casual.
‘Well . . . He gave me a dressing set, with a scent bottle, which I’m not old enough for, and silver-backed brushes.’
‘He sounds like Father Christmas,’ said Cecil; and with a hint of boredom, looking round, ‘What a jolly fellow.’
‘Hmm. He’s very generous, I suppose, but he’s not a bit jolly. You’ll see.’ She glanced up at him, still strangely indignant both with him and with Harry, but he was gazing at the top of the spinney, where they’d met last night, as if at something much more intriguing. ‘He goes to Germany a great deal, he does import-export, you know. He brings us back things.’
‘And you think all these presents are his way of . . . paying court to your mamma,’ said Cecil.
‘I fear so.’
Cecil’s splendid profile, the autocratic nose and slightly bulbous eye, seemed poised for judgement; but when he turned and smiled she felt the sudden return of his attention and kindness. ‘But, my dear child, you’ve no need to fear unless you think she returns his feelings.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . . !’ She was flustered, by having come so far, and by this unexpected word child , which was what her mother herself called her, quite naturally, though often with a hint of criticism. She had got it last night, once or twice, when she was trying to make Cecil feel at home and asking him questions. He must have heard her say it. Now she felt some not quite nice rhetorical advantage had been taken of her – he’d humbled her at the very moment he was meant to be cheering her up.
Cecil smiled. ‘I tell you what. I’ll have a good look at him, as a total outsider, and let you know what I think.’
‘All right . . .’ said Daphne, not at all sure about this compromise.
‘Ah!’ said Cecil, sitting forward in his chair. George was coming across the lawn, his jacket hooked over his shoulder, and whistling cheerily. Then he stood looking down at them, with a question hidden somewhere in his smile.
‘What is that thing you’re always whistling?’ said Daphne.
‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘It’s a song my gyp sings, “When I sees you, my heart goes boomps-a-daisy”.’
‘Really . . . ! I’d have thought if you had to whistle, you’d have chosen something nice,’ and seeing a chance to bring them all back to the subject of last night – ‘such as The Flying Dutchman , for instance.’
George pressed his hand to his heart and started on the lovely part of Senta’s Ballad, staring at her with his eyebrows raised and slowly shaking his head, as if to throw his own self-consciousness over to her. He had a sweet high swooping whistle, but he put in so much vibrato he made the song sound rather silly, and soon he couldn’t keep his lips together and the whistle became a breathy laugh.
‘Hah . . .’ muttered Cecil, seeming slightly uncomfortable, standing up and slipping his notebook into his jacket pocket. Then, with a cold smile, ‘No . . . I can’t whistle, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, with your tin ear!’ said Daphne.
‘I’m just going to take this precious book inside,’ he said, holding up Daphne’s little album. And they watched him cross the lawn and go in by the garden door.
‘So what were you talking about to Cess?’ said George, looking down at her again with his funny smile.
She picked over the grass in
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