fingers just touching her wrist.
“Now, dear, what will you drink?’ asked Clive.
Christine said in her usual clear voice that she would like a gin and orange, please, and Clive poured it out and handed it to one of the guests, a man whom Christine thought looked like an actor, to pass to her.
She did not, now, feel as confident as she had sounded, for the friendly murmurs that had followed her general introduction had been pierced on their conclusion by one sharp little voice. It suggested the yap of a Pekinese, and what it had said was: “How do you do, Miss Smith.” It came from a small shape in a light dress who sat on the other side of Antonia.
Near the fireplace, on a tuffet, sat another shape, consisting chiefly of long, long dark boots and long, long dark hair. The boots were drawn up almost to its chin. The eyes were cast down. The hands were clasped between the knees and the whole pose suggested suffering mutely borne.
Christine sat sipping her gin and orange, which Clive had made enjoyably strong, and found to her satisfaction that she could stare as much as she liked, because no one now was looking at her or taking any notice of her.
They were talking about Noël Coward.
“Surely by now he doesn’t care what the critics say? People will go to see him anyway; our generation because we adore him and he talks our language and the young ones—those of them who care about the theatre—because he’s becoming a classic,” said Diana.
“No one likes bad notices,” said another man who also diffused an atmosphere of the stage; that is to say, he was livelier and better-groomed and handled his voice in a way that was different from most people’s. “When you’re in something by Noël, it’s those catty remarks sending up the book.”
“
Have
you much to do in it, darling? I’ve been in such a rush, I’ve never taken it all in,” sighed Antonia, turning to Clive.
“Only second-lead, dear,” he said mildly. But Christine noticed that his eyes wandered always back to her; away to his daughter, then moving from one guest to another to make sure everyone’s glass was full, but always back to Antonia, in her black chiffon sheath that broke into a mermaid’s tail of frills just below her knees.
“I did tell you,” he murmured, and she turned to him with a remorseful smile.
“Always so good, isn’t he, to people who’ve been in his shows before,” said Diana.
“Well, thank you, love, I was hoping I’d got the job on my merits—poor things, but mine own,” Clive said.
“Don’t be so touchy, darling!” suddenly cried Antonia ringingly. “Peter, get me a drink, I’m as dry as bones.”
Yes. Peter was there, pink in white tie and tails, sitting rather out of the circle, just as Christine was, and doing more listening and looking than talking. They hadn’t even troubled to let her know that he was coming, and they were always making fun of him, he was one of their perpetual jokes, like Amanda and her mother-in-law. But Christine, without any reason, liked him.
He now got up and went across to the table and competently prepared the drink which Antonia instructed him about in the same carrying, impatient voice.
“Well mixed, brother,” said James.
“Ha, that’s experience,” said Peter, carrying the full glass deftly across the room. “I usually end up doing this at parties. Often thought if that lot gets in and taxes us out of existence in the autumn, I’ll get a job as a barman.”
“Think they will?”
“Get in? Haven’t a clue. Hope to God not, anyway.” He sat down in his corner and began again to look at Antonia.
She, sipping at her glass, had turned away from the party and was listening to the little woman next to her, who, Christine supposed, must be the famous Mrs. Marriott, the gossip-writer.
She not only sounded like a Pekinese but looked rather like one, with her short, round-eyed, snub-nosed face, if a Pekinese can be imagined wearing a shift-dress of
“Now, dear, what will you drink?’ asked Clive.
Christine said in her usual clear voice that she would like a gin and orange, please, and Clive poured it out and handed it to one of the guests, a man whom Christine thought looked like an actor, to pass to her.
She did not, now, feel as confident as she had sounded, for the friendly murmurs that had followed her general introduction had been pierced on their conclusion by one sharp little voice. It suggested the yap of a Pekinese, and what it had said was: “How do you do, Miss Smith.” It came from a small shape in a light dress who sat on the other side of Antonia.
Near the fireplace, on a tuffet, sat another shape, consisting chiefly of long, long dark boots and long, long dark hair. The boots were drawn up almost to its chin. The eyes were cast down. The hands were clasped between the knees and the whole pose suggested suffering mutely borne.
Christine sat sipping her gin and orange, which Clive had made enjoyably strong, and found to her satisfaction that she could stare as much as she liked, because no one now was looking at her or taking any notice of her.
They were talking about Noël Coward.
“Surely by now he doesn’t care what the critics say? People will go to see him anyway; our generation because we adore him and he talks our language and the young ones—those of them who care about the theatre—because he’s becoming a classic,” said Diana.
“No one likes bad notices,” said another man who also diffused an atmosphere of the stage; that is to say, he was livelier and better-groomed and handled his voice in a way that was different from most people’s. “When you’re in something by Noël, it’s those catty remarks sending up the book.”
“
Have
you much to do in it, darling? I’ve been in such a rush, I’ve never taken it all in,” sighed Antonia, turning to Clive.
“Only second-lead, dear,” he said mildly. But Christine noticed that his eyes wandered always back to her; away to his daughter, then moving from one guest to another to make sure everyone’s glass was full, but always back to Antonia, in her black chiffon sheath that broke into a mermaid’s tail of frills just below her knees.
“I did tell you,” he murmured, and she turned to him with a remorseful smile.
“Always so good, isn’t he, to people who’ve been in his shows before,” said Diana.
“Well, thank you, love, I was hoping I’d got the job on my merits—poor things, but mine own,” Clive said.
“Don’t be so touchy, darling!” suddenly cried Antonia ringingly. “Peter, get me a drink, I’m as dry as bones.”
Yes. Peter was there, pink in white tie and tails, sitting rather out of the circle, just as Christine was, and doing more listening and looking than talking. They hadn’t even troubled to let her know that he was coming, and they were always making fun of him, he was one of their perpetual jokes, like Amanda and her mother-in-law. But Christine, without any reason, liked him.
He now got up and went across to the table and competently prepared the drink which Antonia instructed him about in the same carrying, impatient voice.
“Well mixed, brother,” said James.
“Ha, that’s experience,” said Peter, carrying the full glass deftly across the room. “I usually end up doing this at parties. Often thought if that lot gets in and taxes us out of existence in the autumn, I’ll get a job as a barman.”
“Think they will?”
“Get in? Haven’t a clue. Hope to God not, anyway.” He sat down in his corner and began again to look at Antonia.
She, sipping at her glass, had turned away from the party and was listening to the little woman next to her, who, Christine supposed, must be the famous Mrs. Marriott, the gossip-writer.
She not only sounded like a Pekinese but looked rather like one, with her short, round-eyed, snub-nosed face, if a Pekinese can be imagined wearing a shift-dress of
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