wretchedly encumbered by the flowers. ‘But perhaps she doesn’t live here? So stupid of me …’
‘Oh, she does live here, but she isn’t in either. Won’t you come in? I don’t suppose she’ll be long.’
‘Well, if I could just write a message …’ He stepped into the hall and took a card from his wallet. What should he write? Something non-committal – the sort of thing one wrote to a woman who was undertaking the arduous and thankless task of making an index to a book. ‘ With many thanks for all you are doing for me – A.F .’, he scribbled. Really, it was the least he could do, he thought, quite forgetting what had been the original purpose of the flowers. He wished now that he had insisted on paying her for the work.
Laurel stood holding the flowers. ‘I’ll give them to her as soon as she comes in,’ she said.
How charming she looked, holding the flowers like that! It seemed now as if this was why he had bought them – to see them held in her arms. A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs … would she know what he was driving at if he were to quote that, or would it seem stupid and affected in the dark suburban hall, with the macintoshes and old shoes huddled together in the peculiarly unaesthetic hat stand?
‘Thank you,’ he said lamely. ‘Good night!’
‘Good night!’ said Laurel, closing the door after him.
She put the flowers down on a chair and examined the card. So this was the famous Aylwin Forbes! He had seemed to her in their brief meeting the perfect ‘older man’, with whom young girls fell in love. ‘5, Quince Square, W.11’, she read on the visiting card. And soon, when she had broken the news to her aunt, she was going to live in Quince Square herself! The prospect was so exciting that she nearly forgot to put the card back with the flowers. What on earth could Miss Dace, of all people, have been ‘doing’ for him, she wondered. Then she remembered – making an index for his book – it was at once comic and pathetic.
Dulcie, now scurrying back in the direction of her own house, nearly bumped into Aylwin as he was coming out of the gate, but he did not appear to recognize her. Just as well, she thought, remembering the strange and rather deceitful way in which she had spent the afternoon.
Chapter Ten
IN the days that followed, Dulcie found herself drinking endless late cups of coffee and accomplishing yards of knitting while Viola speculated on the significance of Aylwin having sent her flowers at that particular point in their relationship. Dulcie felt that she had become a kind of confidante, as in the plays of the great French classical dramatists, Racine and Corneille, which she had read in the sixth form at school. She supposed that it must be a role filled by many women, even today. Naturally she said nothing about her own feelings – her unworthy jealousy at the idea that Aylwin might be attracted to Viola as something more than a competent woman who could make a good index. For why else should he have sent her flowers’ Gratitude for the work she was doing hardly explained this lover-like gesture. One could not blame Viola if she thought otherwise.
Yet Viola and Aylwin did not appear to meet very often. In spite of the flowers – or perhaps because of them – he made no move to seek her out. Viola’s evenings were spent in her room surrounded by proofs and index cards, and, as far as Dulcie knew, he did not telephone her.
Dulcie had said nothing about her meeting with Marjorie Forbes, though she had admitted having seen the outside of the house. Viola would not understand her intense curiosity about all aspects of Aylwin’s life and might easily be shocked to hear how she had managed to worm her way into the jumble sale.
One morning, about a fortnight after; Aylwin had called with the flowers, Dulcie was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for Miss Lord to finish doing Viola’s room, so that they could have their coffee. When Miss Lord eventually
‘Oh, she does live here, but she isn’t in either. Won’t you come in? I don’t suppose she’ll be long.’
‘Well, if I could just write a message …’ He stepped into the hall and took a card from his wallet. What should he write? Something non-committal – the sort of thing one wrote to a woman who was undertaking the arduous and thankless task of making an index to a book. ‘ With many thanks for all you are doing for me – A.F .’, he scribbled. Really, it was the least he could do, he thought, quite forgetting what had been the original purpose of the flowers. He wished now that he had insisted on paying her for the work.
Laurel stood holding the flowers. ‘I’ll give them to her as soon as she comes in,’ she said.
How charming she looked, holding the flowers like that! It seemed now as if this was why he had bought them – to see them held in her arms. A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs … would she know what he was driving at if he were to quote that, or would it seem stupid and affected in the dark suburban hall, with the macintoshes and old shoes huddled together in the peculiarly unaesthetic hat stand?
‘Thank you,’ he said lamely. ‘Good night!’
‘Good night!’ said Laurel, closing the door after him.
She put the flowers down on a chair and examined the card. So this was the famous Aylwin Forbes! He had seemed to her in their brief meeting the perfect ‘older man’, with whom young girls fell in love. ‘5, Quince Square, W.11’, she read on the visiting card. And soon, when she had broken the news to her aunt, she was going to live in Quince Square herself! The prospect was so exciting that she nearly forgot to put the card back with the flowers. What on earth could Miss Dace, of all people, have been ‘doing’ for him, she wondered. Then she remembered – making an index for his book – it was at once comic and pathetic.
Dulcie, now scurrying back in the direction of her own house, nearly bumped into Aylwin as he was coming out of the gate, but he did not appear to recognize her. Just as well, she thought, remembering the strange and rather deceitful way in which she had spent the afternoon.
Chapter Ten
IN the days that followed, Dulcie found herself drinking endless late cups of coffee and accomplishing yards of knitting while Viola speculated on the significance of Aylwin having sent her flowers at that particular point in their relationship. Dulcie felt that she had become a kind of confidante, as in the plays of the great French classical dramatists, Racine and Corneille, which she had read in the sixth form at school. She supposed that it must be a role filled by many women, even today. Naturally she said nothing about her own feelings – her unworthy jealousy at the idea that Aylwin might be attracted to Viola as something more than a competent woman who could make a good index. For why else should he have sent her flowers’ Gratitude for the work she was doing hardly explained this lover-like gesture. One could not blame Viola if she thought otherwise.
Yet Viola and Aylwin did not appear to meet very often. In spite of the flowers – or perhaps because of them – he made no move to seek her out. Viola’s evenings were spent in her room surrounded by proofs and index cards, and, as far as Dulcie knew, he did not telephone her.
Dulcie had said nothing about her meeting with Marjorie Forbes, though she had admitted having seen the outside of the house. Viola would not understand her intense curiosity about all aspects of Aylwin’s life and might easily be shocked to hear how she had managed to worm her way into the jumble sale.
One morning, about a fortnight after; Aylwin had called with the flowers, Dulcie was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for Miss Lord to finish doing Viola’s room, so that they could have their coffee. When Miss Lord eventually
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