came down she was carrying the chrysanthemums with her.
‘I think it’s about time these were thrown away,’ she said. ‘Don’t you, Miss Mainwaring?’
Dulcie hesitated. The flowers were certainly past their best, though, in the curious lingering way that chrysanthemums have, they were not exactly dead. Most of the leaves had withered, but some of the flowers might still pass, arranged with fresh leaves or massed together in a bowl. ‘I don’t think Miss Dace would like it if we were to throw them away without asking,’ said Dulcie. ‘You might change the water, though – it does look rather slimy.’
‘I think it’s very unhealthy to have flowers in a room where you sleep,’ said Miss Lord rather huffily. ‘Miss Dace is very untidy, isn’t she. I wouldn’t presume to put her clothes away for her, but it’s difficult to do the room when they’re lying all over the place.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I must speak to her about it,’ said Dulcie apologetically. ‘Have one of these Abbey biscuits with your coffee. I know you like them. Where are you going for your lunch today?’
‘Well, I might call in at the cafeteria in the High Street,’ said Miss Lord, sounding a little brighter at the thought of lunch. ‘I like it there. It’s warm but not too squashed up – there’s plenty of room between the tables. The only thing is that I have been unlucky there lately.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘Yes, with the beans – baked beans, you know. They didn’t have any last time I went, and it rather upset me, what happened.’
‘Oh?’
‘The man. in the queue after me asked for baked beans and he got them. He was laughing and joking with the girl who was serving – you know the way they do – I didn’t say anything, but I was quite upset.’
‘Yes, I know, that’s what life is like. And it is humiliating. One feels a sense of one’s own inadequacy, somehow, almost unworthiness,’ said Dulcie thoughtfully. ‘But then life is often cruel in small ways, isn’t it. Not exactly nature red in tooth and claw, though one does sometimes feel… And what will you have for pudding today?’ she asked, jerking herself back to reality by a sudden aware-ness of Miss Lord’s pitying look at her vague philosophizings. If this is what education does for you … she seemed to imply. Well might one ask, ‘But what will it lead to?’
‘Deep apricot tart,’ said Miss Lord, suiting her tone to the words.
The mid-morning post had brought two letters. They lay in the hall face downwards, waiting to be picked up. As always – and perhaps the feeling is universal unless one is expecting or hoping for a love letter – the thought of them gave Dulcie a slightly uneasy feeling. Then she saw to her relief that one of them was only Pontings’ catalogue, and she rejoiced in the prospect of looking through it and marvelling at the splendid bargains to be had in the White Sale or in the buying up of fabulous stocks from some failed manufacturer. She saw also that the other letter was a tucked-in printed thing, so that could be nothing troublesome either.
But when she opened it she found that it was an invitation to attend the Private View of the works of a painter whose name was unknown to her, but which was to be held at the gallery off Bond Street where Maurice, her former fiance, worked. Did he imagine, she wondered with a sudden rush of indignation, that she would find such an occasion at all congenial? That she could even bear to go to it at all? Life was at its tricks again, but this was a sharper cruelty than Miss Lord’s discomfiture over the baked beans. She stood with her invitation in her hand, wondering why she did not immediately tear it up. But then reason took over and suggested to her that in all probability the invitation had been sent automatically because her name was on the gallery’s list. It was possible that Maurice didn’t even work there now.
When Viola came in she showed her the invitation and
‘I think it’s about time these were thrown away,’ she said. ‘Don’t you, Miss Mainwaring?’
Dulcie hesitated. The flowers were certainly past their best, though, in the curious lingering way that chrysanthemums have, they were not exactly dead. Most of the leaves had withered, but some of the flowers might still pass, arranged with fresh leaves or massed together in a bowl. ‘I don’t think Miss Dace would like it if we were to throw them away without asking,’ said Dulcie. ‘You might change the water, though – it does look rather slimy.’
‘I think it’s very unhealthy to have flowers in a room where you sleep,’ said Miss Lord rather huffily. ‘Miss Dace is very untidy, isn’t she. I wouldn’t presume to put her clothes away for her, but it’s difficult to do the room when they’re lying all over the place.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I must speak to her about it,’ said Dulcie apologetically. ‘Have one of these Abbey biscuits with your coffee. I know you like them. Where are you going for your lunch today?’
‘Well, I might call in at the cafeteria in the High Street,’ said Miss Lord, sounding a little brighter at the thought of lunch. ‘I like it there. It’s warm but not too squashed up – there’s plenty of room between the tables. The only thing is that I have been unlucky there lately.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘Yes, with the beans – baked beans, you know. They didn’t have any last time I went, and it rather upset me, what happened.’
‘Oh?’
‘The man. in the queue after me asked for baked beans and he got them. He was laughing and joking with the girl who was serving – you know the way they do – I didn’t say anything, but I was quite upset.’
‘Yes, I know, that’s what life is like. And it is humiliating. One feels a sense of one’s own inadequacy, somehow, almost unworthiness,’ said Dulcie thoughtfully. ‘But then life is often cruel in small ways, isn’t it. Not exactly nature red in tooth and claw, though one does sometimes feel… And what will you have for pudding today?’ she asked, jerking herself back to reality by a sudden aware-ness of Miss Lord’s pitying look at her vague philosophizings. If this is what education does for you … she seemed to imply. Well might one ask, ‘But what will it lead to?’
‘Deep apricot tart,’ said Miss Lord, suiting her tone to the words.
The mid-morning post had brought two letters. They lay in the hall face downwards, waiting to be picked up. As always – and perhaps the feeling is universal unless one is expecting or hoping for a love letter – the thought of them gave Dulcie a slightly uneasy feeling. Then she saw to her relief that one of them was only Pontings’ catalogue, and she rejoiced in the prospect of looking through it and marvelling at the splendid bargains to be had in the White Sale or in the buying up of fabulous stocks from some failed manufacturer. She saw also that the other letter was a tucked-in printed thing, so that could be nothing troublesome either.
But when she opened it she found that it was an invitation to attend the Private View of the works of a painter whose name was unknown to her, but which was to be held at the gallery off Bond Street where Maurice, her former fiance, worked. Did he imagine, she wondered with a sudden rush of indignation, that she would find such an occasion at all congenial? That she could even bear to go to it at all? Life was at its tricks again, but this was a sharper cruelty than Miss Lord’s discomfiture over the baked beans. She stood with her invitation in her hand, wondering why she did not immediately tear it up. But then reason took over and suggested to her that in all probability the invitation had been sent automatically because her name was on the gallery’s list. It was possible that Maurice didn’t even work there now.
When Viola came in she showed her the invitation and
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