Steggles. ‘Well, they say London always rubs the corners off people from the provinces, so we shall see what it does to Mr Steggles,’ laughing.
Mr Steggles put his hand into his coat pocket for an instant. When it came out again it was holding an old pipe, and he glanced smilingly round at the ladies for permission to light it, which he received. But during that instant he had deliberately crushed in his hand a thick letter in a violet envelope scented with violets and signed, ‘ Always – always your Bettie.’ The brief contact comforted him with the memory of a real woman as he sat among these four, who did not seem to him to be real women at all.
‘Oh, when Mr Steggles lights up that old pipe I know he’s really settled down, like a cat licking the butter off its paws!’ exclaimed his wife.
‘Yes, I don’t expect anyone does that to the cat when they move nowadays. When do you start at your new school, Margaret?’
‘Next Monday, Mrs Wilson. Mother,’ said Margaret abruptly, ‘I’m going to show Hilda my room – coming, Hilda?’ and with murmurs the two escaped.
‘Doesn’t it look nice!’ exclaimed Hilda, looking round Margaret’s domain.
Margaret laughed. ‘Bless you, you know you don’t like it a bit,’ she said, and Hilda laughed too.
‘Well, it is rather sort-of-monk-like, if you know what I mean.’
‘The most highly bred Japanese, with the purest taste, never wear any colours, only shades ofgrey.’
‘Japanese!’
‘Why not?’
‘Margaret, they’re awful !’
Margaret shrugged her shoulders. ‘No worse than any other nation.’
‘You ought to go about with some Service boys,’ was all Hilda could say, examining her curls in the mirror.
Margaret sat down on the bed, which had a coverlet of pale brown patterned with large brown leaves, and gazed about her with satisfaction. The only pictures were a pastel of some grazing deer in the same soft tint, and a large monochrome of the Mona Lisa, and the grey curtains were stencilled by herself with a conventional design in darker grey.
‘Then I s’pose you think my bedroom is lousy?’ said Hilda, turning away satisfied from the mirror.
‘All pink, and calendars, and photographs of boys. No I don’t; it’s just like you.’
‘Thanks. You know,’ stopping in front of the Mona Lisa and gazing up at her, ‘honestly, I don’t know how you can bear to have that fat pan looking at you when you wake up in the morning. It would brown me off for the day.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Margaret, but even as she spoke a faint doubt assailed her. Was it?
‘It’s a fat, awful pan,’ repeated Hilda vigorously. ‘Now, I’ll tell you a picture I saw once (by an Old Master too, so you see I’m not so low-brow) that I simply adored; it was the Virgin Mary in a blue cloak on a cloud, holding the Baby, and some old saint, and a sort of angel in one corner, and a cupid –’
‘A cherub.’
‘Cherub then – it’s all the same thing – leaning on his elbow at the foot of the picture looking up at them. It was lovely – she had such a beautiful face, and her hand coming right round the Baby, holding Him tight – it was so lifelike. Now that’s my idea of a picture . It was on a Christmas card Iris Morrison sent me. You wouldn’t think she’d have such good taste, would you, though?’
‘It sounds like the Sistine Madonna.’
‘I don’t know what it was, but it was lovely. Do you really like all these Japanesy colours?’ she demanded suddenly, staring at her friend. ‘This room isn’t a bit like you, you know.’
‘Of course, or I shouldn’t have them,’ answered Margaret decidedly, but suddenly she thought of the flowers she loved best; rich old-fashioned pansies, wall-flowers like sombre velvet, crimson roses, and Sweet Williams of so dark a red that they were almost black; she seemed to breathe their summer scent in the chill of autumn, and the colours in her room seemed cold and pale.
‘Well, sooner you
Mr Steggles put his hand into his coat pocket for an instant. When it came out again it was holding an old pipe, and he glanced smilingly round at the ladies for permission to light it, which he received. But during that instant he had deliberately crushed in his hand a thick letter in a violet envelope scented with violets and signed, ‘ Always – always your Bettie.’ The brief contact comforted him with the memory of a real woman as he sat among these four, who did not seem to him to be real women at all.
‘Oh, when Mr Steggles lights up that old pipe I know he’s really settled down, like a cat licking the butter off its paws!’ exclaimed his wife.
‘Yes, I don’t expect anyone does that to the cat when they move nowadays. When do you start at your new school, Margaret?’
‘Next Monday, Mrs Wilson. Mother,’ said Margaret abruptly, ‘I’m going to show Hilda my room – coming, Hilda?’ and with murmurs the two escaped.
‘Doesn’t it look nice!’ exclaimed Hilda, looking round Margaret’s domain.
Margaret laughed. ‘Bless you, you know you don’t like it a bit,’ she said, and Hilda laughed too.
‘Well, it is rather sort-of-monk-like, if you know what I mean.’
‘The most highly bred Japanese, with the purest taste, never wear any colours, only shades ofgrey.’
‘Japanese!’
‘Why not?’
‘Margaret, they’re awful !’
Margaret shrugged her shoulders. ‘No worse than any other nation.’
‘You ought to go about with some Service boys,’ was all Hilda could say, examining her curls in the mirror.
Margaret sat down on the bed, which had a coverlet of pale brown patterned with large brown leaves, and gazed about her with satisfaction. The only pictures were a pastel of some grazing deer in the same soft tint, and a large monochrome of the Mona Lisa, and the grey curtains were stencilled by herself with a conventional design in darker grey.
‘Then I s’pose you think my bedroom is lousy?’ said Hilda, turning away satisfied from the mirror.
‘All pink, and calendars, and photographs of boys. No I don’t; it’s just like you.’
‘Thanks. You know,’ stopping in front of the Mona Lisa and gazing up at her, ‘honestly, I don’t know how you can bear to have that fat pan looking at you when you wake up in the morning. It would brown me off for the day.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Margaret, but even as she spoke a faint doubt assailed her. Was it?
‘It’s a fat, awful pan,’ repeated Hilda vigorously. ‘Now, I’ll tell you a picture I saw once (by an Old Master too, so you see I’m not so low-brow) that I simply adored; it was the Virgin Mary in a blue cloak on a cloud, holding the Baby, and some old saint, and a sort of angel in one corner, and a cupid –’
‘A cherub.’
‘Cherub then – it’s all the same thing – leaning on his elbow at the foot of the picture looking up at them. It was lovely – she had such a beautiful face, and her hand coming right round the Baby, holding Him tight – it was so lifelike. Now that’s my idea of a picture . It was on a Christmas card Iris Morrison sent me. You wouldn’t think she’d have such good taste, would you, though?’
‘It sounds like the Sistine Madonna.’
‘I don’t know what it was, but it was lovely. Do you really like all these Japanesy colours?’ she demanded suddenly, staring at her friend. ‘This room isn’t a bit like you, you know.’
‘Of course, or I shouldn’t have them,’ answered Margaret decidedly, but suddenly she thought of the flowers she loved best; rich old-fashioned pansies, wall-flowers like sombre velvet, crimson roses, and Sweet Williams of so dark a red that they were almost black; she seemed to breathe their summer scent in the chill of autumn, and the colours in her room seemed cold and pale.
‘Well, sooner you
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