cigarette, and Elsie saw that her smile was, after all, quite a kindly one.
“You look dog-tired,” she said. “Helen’s fixing up her room for you. You’ll be able to turn in in a minute.”
“Oh, no!” Elsie had forgotten this minor fear, preoccupied with the major one. “No, truly, I shouldn’t think of it. Please don’t let her. I’ll sleep here on the sofa. Really, I sleep awfully well.”
“That’s all right. We call it Helen’s room. She keeps some of her things in it. We always put people up there.”
These, Elsie knew, were the specious protests of hospitality and sisterly kindness; but she was too sleepy to argue any more. Secretly she had been nervous of being invited to share with Leo. Leo’s room at home had always been a kind of fastness, and the thought of invading it unnerved her even now.
“I’m sure it will be lovely,” she said.
It was Helen who took her up. Her room, Elsie decided, was very like her, quiet in its buff and green, neat without fussiness, giving the illusion of space in small compass. It was also entirely free from her personal trifles; even the cupboards and drawers were empty. Elsie admired the tact with which she had eliminated so completely all reminders of the fact that she had been turned out.
“I’ve put two bottles in the bed,” she said, turning down the green silk eiderdown. “I do hope it won’t be damp. It happens here so quickly.”
“I’m sure it won’t be.” Elsie looked, contentedly, round the room again. Her eye was caught by a charcoal sketch, pinned up unframed on the wooden panels of the opposite wall. “Why, it’s Leo,” she exclaimed.
“Yes. Do you think it’s like her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elsie politely. Indeed, it was very like her at the moment when, just now, the light of the match had produced so disconcerting an effect. It was a head and shoulders, the face half-turned, the shoulders bare; the eyes had a look of keeping something amusing to themselves. The technique was spare, hard and bold, and had an odd effect of deliberate ruthlessness.
“It’s very clever.” Elsie had learned from her mother to shelve, with this adjective, unsettling ideas. “Who did it?”
“I did,” said Helen in her gentle indifferent voice. “I do hope you’ll sleep well. I’ve put you a tin of biscuits in case you get hungry in the night.”
“Are you an artist?” Elsie stared at her in awe and curiosity, mingled with satisfaction at having placed one of them, at least, against a practicable background.
“Goodness, no,” said Helen briskly. “There are too many artists; and not enough good ones. It’s just an amusement. I’m a technical illustrator.”
“Really? What do you illustrate?”
“This sort of thing.” She took a portfolio out of a rack against the wall.
Elsie opened it, phrases of admiration forming ready upon her lips. She stared at one diagram, then turned the page hastily and stared at another, wondering if she had got it the right way up. She had expected designs for jewellery, or evening gowns; not this meaningless, but somehow repugnant, arrangement resembling a nexus of interwoven worms, framed in what looked like folds of cloth. She gave up the effort to be suitable. “Whatever is it?” she asked.
“A tumour in the frontal lobe of somebody’s brain,” said Helen casually. “Just before they got it out.” She turned on to the next diagram. “This is a cross-section of an eye. Of course, that had been removed already.”
“Oh.” Fascinated horror kept Elsie’s eyes glued to the page. Close behind her shoulder, Helen smelt faintly of some light scent, fresh and warm and silky. Elsie had a feeling that if one more incomprehensible thing happened she would burst into tears.
“Where did you draw them?”
“In the operating theatre,” said Helen, “of course.”
“But don’t you mind?”
“No. Why should I?”
“I’m sure it must be—very interesting.” Elsie’s mental picture
“You look dog-tired,” she said. “Helen’s fixing up her room for you. You’ll be able to turn in in a minute.”
“Oh, no!” Elsie had forgotten this minor fear, preoccupied with the major one. “No, truly, I shouldn’t think of it. Please don’t let her. I’ll sleep here on the sofa. Really, I sleep awfully well.”
“That’s all right. We call it Helen’s room. She keeps some of her things in it. We always put people up there.”
These, Elsie knew, were the specious protests of hospitality and sisterly kindness; but she was too sleepy to argue any more. Secretly she had been nervous of being invited to share with Leo. Leo’s room at home had always been a kind of fastness, and the thought of invading it unnerved her even now.
“I’m sure it will be lovely,” she said.
It was Helen who took her up. Her room, Elsie decided, was very like her, quiet in its buff and green, neat without fussiness, giving the illusion of space in small compass. It was also entirely free from her personal trifles; even the cupboards and drawers were empty. Elsie admired the tact with which she had eliminated so completely all reminders of the fact that she had been turned out.
“I’ve put two bottles in the bed,” she said, turning down the green silk eiderdown. “I do hope it won’t be damp. It happens here so quickly.”
“I’m sure it won’t be.” Elsie looked, contentedly, round the room again. Her eye was caught by a charcoal sketch, pinned up unframed on the wooden panels of the opposite wall. “Why, it’s Leo,” she exclaimed.
“Yes. Do you think it’s like her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Elsie politely. Indeed, it was very like her at the moment when, just now, the light of the match had produced so disconcerting an effect. It was a head and shoulders, the face half-turned, the shoulders bare; the eyes had a look of keeping something amusing to themselves. The technique was spare, hard and bold, and had an odd effect of deliberate ruthlessness.
“It’s very clever.” Elsie had learned from her mother to shelve, with this adjective, unsettling ideas. “Who did it?”
“I did,” said Helen in her gentle indifferent voice. “I do hope you’ll sleep well. I’ve put you a tin of biscuits in case you get hungry in the night.”
“Are you an artist?” Elsie stared at her in awe and curiosity, mingled with satisfaction at having placed one of them, at least, against a practicable background.
“Goodness, no,” said Helen briskly. “There are too many artists; and not enough good ones. It’s just an amusement. I’m a technical illustrator.”
“Really? What do you illustrate?”
“This sort of thing.” She took a portfolio out of a rack against the wall.
Elsie opened it, phrases of admiration forming ready upon her lips. She stared at one diagram, then turned the page hastily and stared at another, wondering if she had got it the right way up. She had expected designs for jewellery, or evening gowns; not this meaningless, but somehow repugnant, arrangement resembling a nexus of interwoven worms, framed in what looked like folds of cloth. She gave up the effort to be suitable. “Whatever is it?” she asked.
“A tumour in the frontal lobe of somebody’s brain,” said Helen casually. “Just before they got it out.” She turned on to the next diagram. “This is a cross-section of an eye. Of course, that had been removed already.”
“Oh.” Fascinated horror kept Elsie’s eyes glued to the page. Close behind her shoulder, Helen smelt faintly of some light scent, fresh and warm and silky. Elsie had a feeling that if one more incomprehensible thing happened she would burst into tears.
“Where did you draw them?”
“In the operating theatre,” said Helen, “of course.”
“But don’t you mind?”
“No. Why should I?”
“I’m sure it must be—very interesting.” Elsie’s mental picture
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