contained a Sèvres dinner service made for Marie Antoinette; over cupboards, windows and doorways were decorative paintings by Boucher, framed in the panelling.
The talk, at dinner, was of the ball which Lady Montdore intended to give for Polly at Montdore House during the London season.
“May Day, I think,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Boy. “It must either be the first or the last ball of the summer, if people are to remember it.”
“Oh, not the last, on any account. I should have to invite all the girls whose dances Polly had been to, and nothing is so fatal to a ball as too many girls.”
“But if you don’t ask them,” said Lady Patricia, “will they ask her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Montdore shortly. “They’ll be dying to have her. I can pay them back in other ways. But, anyhow, I don’t propose to take her about in the debutante world very much (all those awful parties, S.W. something). I don’t see the point of it. Shewould become quite worn out and meet a lot of thoroughly unsuitable young men. I’m planning to let her go to not more than two dances a week, carefully chosen. Quite enough for a girl who’s not very strong. I thought later on, if you’ll help me, Boy, we could make a list of women to give dinners for my ball. Of course it must be perfectly understood that they are to ask the people I tell them to. Can’t have them paying off their own friends and relations on me.”
After dinner we sat in the Long Gallery. Boy settled down to his petit point while we three women sat with idle hands. He had a talent for needlework, had hemstitched some of the sheets for the Queen’s doll’s house and had covered many chairs at Silkin and at Hampton.
He was now engaged upon a fire screen for the Long Gallery, which he had designed himself in a sprawling Jacobean pattern. The theme of it was supposed to be flowers from Lady Montdore’s garden, but the flowers looked more like horrid huge insects. Being young and deeply prejudiced, it never occurred to me to admire this work. I merely thought how too dreadful it was to see a man sewing and how hideous he looked, his grizzled head bent over the canvas into which he was deftly stitching various shades of khaki. He had the same sort of thick hair as mine and I knew that the waves in it, the little careless curls (boyish) must have been carefully wetted and pinched in before dinner.
Lady Montdore had sent for paper and a pencil in order to write down the names of dinner hostesses. “We’ll put down all the possible ones and then weed,” she said. But she soon gave up this occupation in order to complain about Polly, and though I had already heard her on the subject when she had been talking with Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett, the tone of her voice was now much sharper and more aggrieved.
“One does everything for these girls,” she said. “Everything. You wouldn’t believe it, perhaps, but I assure you I spend quite half my day making plans for Polly—appointments, clothes, parties, and so on. I haven’t a minute to see my own friends, I’ve hardly had agame of cards for months, I’ve quite given up my painting—in the middle of that nude girl from Oxford, too—in fact, I devote myself entirely to the child. I keep the London house going simply for her convenience. I hate London in the winter as you know and Montdore would be quite happy in two rooms without a cook (all that cold food at the club), but I’ve got a huge staff there eating their heads off entirely on her account. You’d think she’d be grateful at least, wouldn’t you? Not at all. Sulky and disagreeable, I can hardly get a word out of her.”
The Dougdales said nothing. He was sorting out wools with great concentration, and Lady Patricia lay back, her eyes closed, suffering as she had suffered for so long, in silence. She was looking more than ever like some garden statue, her skin and her beige London dress exactly the same colour, while her poor face was
The talk, at dinner, was of the ball which Lady Montdore intended to give for Polly at Montdore House during the London season.
“May Day, I think,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Boy. “It must either be the first or the last ball of the summer, if people are to remember it.”
“Oh, not the last, on any account. I should have to invite all the girls whose dances Polly had been to, and nothing is so fatal to a ball as too many girls.”
“But if you don’t ask them,” said Lady Patricia, “will they ask her?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Montdore shortly. “They’ll be dying to have her. I can pay them back in other ways. But, anyhow, I don’t propose to take her about in the debutante world very much (all those awful parties, S.W. something). I don’t see the point of it. Shewould become quite worn out and meet a lot of thoroughly unsuitable young men. I’m planning to let her go to not more than two dances a week, carefully chosen. Quite enough for a girl who’s not very strong. I thought later on, if you’ll help me, Boy, we could make a list of women to give dinners for my ball. Of course it must be perfectly understood that they are to ask the people I tell them to. Can’t have them paying off their own friends and relations on me.”
After dinner we sat in the Long Gallery. Boy settled down to his petit point while we three women sat with idle hands. He had a talent for needlework, had hemstitched some of the sheets for the Queen’s doll’s house and had covered many chairs at Silkin and at Hampton.
He was now engaged upon a fire screen for the Long Gallery, which he had designed himself in a sprawling Jacobean pattern. The theme of it was supposed to be flowers from Lady Montdore’s garden, but the flowers looked more like horrid huge insects. Being young and deeply prejudiced, it never occurred to me to admire this work. I merely thought how too dreadful it was to see a man sewing and how hideous he looked, his grizzled head bent over the canvas into which he was deftly stitching various shades of khaki. He had the same sort of thick hair as mine and I knew that the waves in it, the little careless curls (boyish) must have been carefully wetted and pinched in before dinner.
Lady Montdore had sent for paper and a pencil in order to write down the names of dinner hostesses. “We’ll put down all the possible ones and then weed,” she said. But she soon gave up this occupation in order to complain about Polly, and though I had already heard her on the subject when she had been talking with Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett, the tone of her voice was now much sharper and more aggrieved.
“One does everything for these girls,” she said. “Everything. You wouldn’t believe it, perhaps, but I assure you I spend quite half my day making plans for Polly—appointments, clothes, parties, and so on. I haven’t a minute to see my own friends, I’ve hardly had agame of cards for months, I’ve quite given up my painting—in the middle of that nude girl from Oxford, too—in fact, I devote myself entirely to the child. I keep the London house going simply for her convenience. I hate London in the winter as you know and Montdore would be quite happy in two rooms without a cook (all that cold food at the club), but I’ve got a huge staff there eating their heads off entirely on her account. You’d think she’d be grateful at least, wouldn’t you? Not at all. Sulky and disagreeable, I can hardly get a word out of her.”
The Dougdales said nothing. He was sorting out wools with great concentration, and Lady Patricia lay back, her eyes closed, suffering as she had suffered for so long, in silence. She was looking more than ever like some garden statue, her skin and her beige London dress exactly the same colour, while her poor face was
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