‘Just a thought,’ and looked away from the bed at the faded wallpaper tempered with dark patches where once had hung mirrors. For heaven’s sake, she told herself, I am in love with Matthew.
Henry was saying, ‘It’s a bit shabby, I’m afraid,’ but not as though he cared. ‘The dress is in my dressing-room. Pilar thought it should hang; that, left in its box, it might crease.’ He watched the girls as their eyes, blue and brown, explored the room.
Barbara said, ‘What a lovely room. Is it exactly as it was for your parents?’
Henry said, ‘Not exactly,’ but made no attempt to tell of any changes he might have made. Barbara thought, I bet his parents didn’t throw ink.
Henry said, ‘They didn’t let the dogs in their bedroom,’ and, catching Antonia’s eye, laughed.
Antonia said, ‘Lying in bed you can see your horses swishing their tails in the shade of a tree.’ She pointed to the distant horses.
Barbara said, ‘I met them earlier on my way to the lake. Are you—er—are you very fond of them?’ Remembering Margaret’s snide allusion, she avoided Antonia’s eye.
Henry said, ‘I bred one of them from a mare called Petronella, who was bred by my father. The other is her foal.’
Barbara said, ‘Oh.’
Watching her troubled expression Henry thought that mischief had been sown, then that he was too sensitive; it was ridiculous to be thin-skinned. But when Antonia asked, ‘Was your wife’s room like this before she had it redecorated?’, he was wearily aware that his instinct was right. He answered crisply, ‘Quite like,’ and watched Antonia flush, turn away and gaze at the view.
He said, ‘I see that my wife has been confiding the secret of my bestiality,’ and did not try to relieve either girl of her embarrassment in the pause that ensued.
At last the girls spoke together. ‘The dress?’ Their voices were almost tearful.
Henry said, ‘In here,’ and opened a door into another room. ‘It was my mother’s sitting-room. I use it as a dressing-room.’ He opened a cupboard and lifted out the dress on its hanger.
Antonia exclaimed, ‘How gorgeous!’
While Barbara said simply, ‘We could never pretend it was one of ours, not in a thousand years.’
Henry said, ‘Try,’ and swung the dress to and fro, so that the champagne-coloured chiffon grew lighter and darker as it moved. ‘I thought,’ he said, watching their faces, ‘that perhaps she might be persuaded to get out of bed to wear it.’
Antonia said, ‘If she doesn’t she’s out of her tiny mind.’
Barbara hissed, ‘Honestly, Antonia,’ between clenched teeth and, reaching for the dress, took it from Henry. Holding it against her body, she said, ‘Alas, no looking-glass. May I try your eyes?’ and flirted up at Henry.
Antonia, jealous of her friend, said, ‘There are plenty in Margaret’s room. Come on, let’s take it to her.’
‘Now? This minute?’ Barbara clutched the dress.
‘Of course now, this minute,’ Antonia said tartly. ‘I don’t suppose Henry’s got all day, have you, Henry?’ and looked up to see whether she, too, was reflected in his eyes.
Henry thought that either of these girls would look well in the dress; it would suit Barbara’s brown hair and Antonia’s fair better than Margaret’s marmalade. He said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ and held the door open for them.
‘This is unbearable,’ whispered Antonia as they followed him down the corridor. ‘How did he manage to find a full-length dress when they are all shortish this season?’
‘It’s a wedding dress,’ suggested Barbara, also whispering.
‘That colour? Couldn’t be,’ muttered Antonia.
‘For a divorcee?’ said Barbara. ‘I am going to take along my smoky blue; shall you present your pink?’
‘Why not?’ said Antonia. ‘Come on.’
‘Good luck, girls,’ said Henry. Reaching the stairs, he went down them two at a time followed by his dogs.
‘I believe that suggestion about horses
Henry was saying, ‘It’s a bit shabby, I’m afraid,’ but not as though he cared. ‘The dress is in my dressing-room. Pilar thought it should hang; that, left in its box, it might crease.’ He watched the girls as their eyes, blue and brown, explored the room.
Barbara said, ‘What a lovely room. Is it exactly as it was for your parents?’
Henry said, ‘Not exactly,’ but made no attempt to tell of any changes he might have made. Barbara thought, I bet his parents didn’t throw ink.
Henry said, ‘They didn’t let the dogs in their bedroom,’ and, catching Antonia’s eye, laughed.
Antonia said, ‘Lying in bed you can see your horses swishing their tails in the shade of a tree.’ She pointed to the distant horses.
Barbara said, ‘I met them earlier on my way to the lake. Are you—er—are you very fond of them?’ Remembering Margaret’s snide allusion, she avoided Antonia’s eye.
Henry said, ‘I bred one of them from a mare called Petronella, who was bred by my father. The other is her foal.’
Barbara said, ‘Oh.’
Watching her troubled expression Henry thought that mischief had been sown, then that he was too sensitive; it was ridiculous to be thin-skinned. But when Antonia asked, ‘Was your wife’s room like this before she had it redecorated?’, he was wearily aware that his instinct was right. He answered crisply, ‘Quite like,’ and watched Antonia flush, turn away and gaze at the view.
He said, ‘I see that my wife has been confiding the secret of my bestiality,’ and did not try to relieve either girl of her embarrassment in the pause that ensued.
At last the girls spoke together. ‘The dress?’ Their voices were almost tearful.
Henry said, ‘In here,’ and opened a door into another room. ‘It was my mother’s sitting-room. I use it as a dressing-room.’ He opened a cupboard and lifted out the dress on its hanger.
Antonia exclaimed, ‘How gorgeous!’
While Barbara said simply, ‘We could never pretend it was one of ours, not in a thousand years.’
Henry said, ‘Try,’ and swung the dress to and fro, so that the champagne-coloured chiffon grew lighter and darker as it moved. ‘I thought,’ he said, watching their faces, ‘that perhaps she might be persuaded to get out of bed to wear it.’
Antonia said, ‘If she doesn’t she’s out of her tiny mind.’
Barbara hissed, ‘Honestly, Antonia,’ between clenched teeth and, reaching for the dress, took it from Henry. Holding it against her body, she said, ‘Alas, no looking-glass. May I try your eyes?’ and flirted up at Henry.
Antonia, jealous of her friend, said, ‘There are plenty in Margaret’s room. Come on, let’s take it to her.’
‘Now? This minute?’ Barbara clutched the dress.
‘Of course now, this minute,’ Antonia said tartly. ‘I don’t suppose Henry’s got all day, have you, Henry?’ and looked up to see whether she, too, was reflected in his eyes.
Henry thought that either of these girls would look well in the dress; it would suit Barbara’s brown hair and Antonia’s fair better than Margaret’s marmalade. He said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ and held the door open for them.
‘This is unbearable,’ whispered Antonia as they followed him down the corridor. ‘How did he manage to find a full-length dress when they are all shortish this season?’
‘It’s a wedding dress,’ suggested Barbara, also whispering.
‘That colour? Couldn’t be,’ muttered Antonia.
‘For a divorcee?’ said Barbara. ‘I am going to take along my smoky blue; shall you present your pink?’
‘Why not?’ said Antonia. ‘Come on.’
‘Good luck, girls,’ said Henry. Reaching the stairs, he went down them two at a time followed by his dogs.
‘I believe that suggestion about horses
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