That’s where London is so different to the country, and especially in winter, and even in the spring, too.’ And London seemed to have been gayer than ever these last few months. So many society func tions . She had read of them in the newspapers. Newspapers were a great resource, of course, though not the same as taking part in the functions themselves. Oh, no! At least not quite the same. And how the world changed!
Ronnie said, ‘Certainly,’ when the opportunity offered, and ‘But I do indeed , really,’ though it wasn’t in the least necessary.
‘You see,’ she was repeating yet again, as she peeped for the fourth time into the cream-jug in case Mrs Cotton had forgotten whether it was empty or not, ‘one is so removed from things hidden away here in the country – though the country, of course, as I say, is the country after all – that I sometimes positively pine to see a policeman!’
She lowered her long head, gazed out of her dark mournful eyes at him, and giggled.
And the sun was wheeling lower and lower into the west, and a thrush had followed the blackbird on to the concert platform, and the flowers in the pots were continuing to unfurl – Ronnie had seen with precisely how pertinacious yet gentle a motion on the movies. But though a machine may accelerate or slow up the appearances of life, man’s consciousness is as obedient as her flowers to the pace set by Nature. A fact which Mrs Cotton , senior, was herself demonstrating as she munched steadily on, her eyes never now meeting his own, her only share in this sprightly conversation an occasional nod, or a ‘Thank you, Emma,’ or a prompt hand outheld (and again and again, for Ronnie’s thirst was extreme), for his empty cup, or an impatient flick of her fingers at the crumbs in her lap.
‘I was so del a ted to hear,’ said Emma at last, ‘that you are an admirer of my husband’s poetry.’
‘Indeed I am,’ cried Ronnie, in a voice that even in his own ear sounded as hollow as a tub.
‘And yet, do you know, Mr Forbes, I am sure it must be ages since I have seen any mention of him in the newspapers. But then you don’t even see Lord Tennyson’s name mentioned very much now. Do you?’
She glanced a little uneasily at her mother-in-law, but only for a moment; her dark uncertain gaze had immediately settled on their visitor again.
‘He hasn’t been dead long enough,’ broke in Mrs Cotton abruptly.
‘No,’ Ronnie retorted with spirit, in the forlorn hope of wooing her into the talk, ‘that’s just the very point. I was only saying …’
But at this moment, though he had been conscious of no interruption, the door behind him seemed to have opened, for the two ladies had simultaneously raised and fixed their eyes on something or somebody behind him and out of his view. It must have been the parlour-maid, for though for the moment a curious transfixedness had spread over Mrs Cotton’s features, and her daughter-in-law looked positively alarmed, as soon as the door had been as softly shut again, Emma, after yet another glance at Mrs Cotton, had instantly begun talking away again at Ronnie with an almost galvanic zest, and apparently with less intention than ever of waiting for his replies.
‘I do so hope ,’she said, when Ronnie rose at last to make his adieux, ‘I do so hope that if you should compose anything in print about my husband, you will let me see it, Mr Forbes. Just Willows, near Ashenham, would always find me; the postman knows us; and I should be so very interested to hear what is being thought now about books, and things like that. For being, as I say, in the country as we are, we …’
Her voice trailed away. The long pale lids of her aggrieved eyes had flick eringly descended, and Mrs Cotton had at last and finally hastened into the breach. She, too, had risen, and had given a decisive tug at the flowered china bell-handle beside the fireplace.
‘Good-bye, Mr Forbes,’ she said, as abandoning
Ronnie said, ‘Certainly,’ when the opportunity offered, and ‘But I do indeed , really,’ though it wasn’t in the least necessary.
‘You see,’ she was repeating yet again, as she peeped for the fourth time into the cream-jug in case Mrs Cotton had forgotten whether it was empty or not, ‘one is so removed from things hidden away here in the country – though the country, of course, as I say, is the country after all – that I sometimes positively pine to see a policeman!’
She lowered her long head, gazed out of her dark mournful eyes at him, and giggled.
And the sun was wheeling lower and lower into the west, and a thrush had followed the blackbird on to the concert platform, and the flowers in the pots were continuing to unfurl – Ronnie had seen with precisely how pertinacious yet gentle a motion on the movies. But though a machine may accelerate or slow up the appearances of life, man’s consciousness is as obedient as her flowers to the pace set by Nature. A fact which Mrs Cotton , senior, was herself demonstrating as she munched steadily on, her eyes never now meeting his own, her only share in this sprightly conversation an occasional nod, or a ‘Thank you, Emma,’ or a prompt hand outheld (and again and again, for Ronnie’s thirst was extreme), for his empty cup, or an impatient flick of her fingers at the crumbs in her lap.
‘I was so del a ted to hear,’ said Emma at last, ‘that you are an admirer of my husband’s poetry.’
‘Indeed I am,’ cried Ronnie, in a voice that even in his own ear sounded as hollow as a tub.
‘And yet, do you know, Mr Forbes, I am sure it must be ages since I have seen any mention of him in the newspapers. But then you don’t even see Lord Tennyson’s name mentioned very much now. Do you?’
She glanced a little uneasily at her mother-in-law, but only for a moment; her dark uncertain gaze had immediately settled on their visitor again.
‘He hasn’t been dead long enough,’ broke in Mrs Cotton abruptly.
‘No,’ Ronnie retorted with spirit, in the forlorn hope of wooing her into the talk, ‘that’s just the very point. I was only saying …’
But at this moment, though he had been conscious of no interruption, the door behind him seemed to have opened, for the two ladies had simultaneously raised and fixed their eyes on something or somebody behind him and out of his view. It must have been the parlour-maid, for though for the moment a curious transfixedness had spread over Mrs Cotton’s features, and her daughter-in-law looked positively alarmed, as soon as the door had been as softly shut again, Emma, after yet another glance at Mrs Cotton, had instantly begun talking away again at Ronnie with an almost galvanic zest, and apparently with less intention than ever of waiting for his replies.
‘I do so hope ,’she said, when Ronnie rose at last to make his adieux, ‘I do so hope that if you should compose anything in print about my husband, you will let me see it, Mr Forbes. Just Willows, near Ashenham, would always find me; the postman knows us; and I should be so very interested to hear what is being thought now about books, and things like that. For being, as I say, in the country as we are, we …’
Her voice trailed away. The long pale lids of her aggrieved eyes had flick eringly descended, and Mrs Cotton had at last and finally hastened into the breach. She, too, had risen, and had given a decisive tug at the flowered china bell-handle beside the fireplace.
‘Good-bye, Mr Forbes,’ she said, as abandoning
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