oatmeal-tinted brocade and a gauze scarf. Her hair was dressed in frizzy blue curls and there were six rows of pearls clasped tightly about her neck. That’s to hide it, thought Christine, she must be getting on. But she’s ever so smart.
The conversation was absorbingly interesting to her.
“… the Braithewaites, and Colonel Lester (their girl’s just off to the Sorbonne). Then on Wednesday I flew up to Gail-glass for young Hugh’s twenty-first, fireworks and a barbecue with a whole sheep and Games the next day. And we danced till four, then back here for Lady Muir’s dance for Katherine, and Susan Gillespie …”
It sounded an unbelievable kind of life, flying off to parties in grand houses and writing about them afterwards.
The two actors and Clive were talking in a group by themselves—animatedly and with frequent bursts of laughter, and Mrs. Traill, who this evening wore a drab hessian shift with buttons like pebbles and more pebbles in her ears, after listening smilingly to their talk for a little while, joined them, and the laughter became more frequent; Christine remembered Clive saying that Mrs. Traill had been on tour with him “between the wars”; the group would have something in common.
Diana and James had drawn Peter from his corner and were talking with him about cars; only she, and Glynis, and the big dark man next to Antonia, were out of it for a brief moment; silent, not laughing.
“The flowers are simply delicious,” he suddenly called across to her. “Who arranged them? You?”
Christine smiled and nodded.
“At least …” he edged a little nearer to her, lessening the distance, “they aren’t arranged at all; they’re divinely natural. Of course, you’ve never been to one of those awful places where they teach you to bunch up chicken-wire and ‘balance values’, have you?”
“Oh no. I just—but I’ve always thought it would be nice to understand how to arrange them properly,” said Christine, glowing under the interest in the heavy dark face and the kindness in the pouched, bloodshot eyes. He threw up his hands.
“
Oh
, my God. Now promise me you’ll never have any lessons. If you knew how refreshing those great country bunches are—and the grass, the grass was an inspiration, I wish you could come down to my showrooms and arrange the flowers for me, the people who do it never seem to get them quite right … promise me you won’t waste your money on lessons,” he implored, leaning towards her. She almost felt the faint heat from his thick body, coming at her across the gap that separated them, and was a little embarrassed by his intense manner.
“All right,” she said, laughing, “I won’t.”
“Darling …” said Antonia, turning her head, “what are you going on at Christine about … the flowers? Aren’t they lovely, she’s our clever girl, aren’t you?” smiling at Christine. He had taken out a flat gold watch and was looking at it. “And you can put that away, Nigel. It isn’t ten yet.”
“I know, darling, I’m desolate at having to, but honestly I must. You know what he’s like if one’s late. So touchy. I sometimes feel if I have to take one more scene I shall quietly
die
.”
This conversation went on in a rapid undertone, while the two pairs of eyes, the large sapphire ones and those small and richly grey as water-rinsed pebbles stared into each other and painfully smiled.
“Why take them at all?”
“Now, darling … How many more times have we got to have this one out?”
“Well at least say something to the child. It’s supposed to be her party.”
He glanced across the room to where Glynis Lennox, roused from apparent dozing by the conversation between Mrs. Traill and the three actors, was now sitting upright on her tuffet and listening with a solemn expression.
“Why in God’s name does she dress like that? It’s an outrage. She’s exactly like that early photograph of Mrs. Pat that used to be in my mother’s
The conversation was absorbingly interesting to her.
“… the Braithewaites, and Colonel Lester (their girl’s just off to the Sorbonne). Then on Wednesday I flew up to Gail-glass for young Hugh’s twenty-first, fireworks and a barbecue with a whole sheep and Games the next day. And we danced till four, then back here for Lady Muir’s dance for Katherine, and Susan Gillespie …”
It sounded an unbelievable kind of life, flying off to parties in grand houses and writing about them afterwards.
The two actors and Clive were talking in a group by themselves—animatedly and with frequent bursts of laughter, and Mrs. Traill, who this evening wore a drab hessian shift with buttons like pebbles and more pebbles in her ears, after listening smilingly to their talk for a little while, joined them, and the laughter became more frequent; Christine remembered Clive saying that Mrs. Traill had been on tour with him “between the wars”; the group would have something in common.
Diana and James had drawn Peter from his corner and were talking with him about cars; only she, and Glynis, and the big dark man next to Antonia, were out of it for a brief moment; silent, not laughing.
“The flowers are simply delicious,” he suddenly called across to her. “Who arranged them? You?”
Christine smiled and nodded.
“At least …” he edged a little nearer to her, lessening the distance, “they aren’t arranged at all; they’re divinely natural. Of course, you’ve never been to one of those awful places where they teach you to bunch up chicken-wire and ‘balance values’, have you?”
“Oh no. I just—but I’ve always thought it would be nice to understand how to arrange them properly,” said Christine, glowing under the interest in the heavy dark face and the kindness in the pouched, bloodshot eyes. He threw up his hands.
“
Oh
, my God. Now promise me you’ll never have any lessons. If you knew how refreshing those great country bunches are—and the grass, the grass was an inspiration, I wish you could come down to my showrooms and arrange the flowers for me, the people who do it never seem to get them quite right … promise me you won’t waste your money on lessons,” he implored, leaning towards her. She almost felt the faint heat from his thick body, coming at her across the gap that separated them, and was a little embarrassed by his intense manner.
“All right,” she said, laughing, “I won’t.”
“Darling …” said Antonia, turning her head, “what are you going on at Christine about … the flowers? Aren’t they lovely, she’s our clever girl, aren’t you?” smiling at Christine. He had taken out a flat gold watch and was looking at it. “And you can put that away, Nigel. It isn’t ten yet.”
“I know, darling, I’m desolate at having to, but honestly I must. You know what he’s like if one’s late. So touchy. I sometimes feel if I have to take one more scene I shall quietly
die
.”
This conversation went on in a rapid undertone, while the two pairs of eyes, the large sapphire ones and those small and richly grey as water-rinsed pebbles stared into each other and painfully smiled.
“Why take them at all?”
“Now, darling … How many more times have we got to have this one out?”
“Well at least say something to the child. It’s supposed to be her party.”
He glanced across the room to where Glynis Lennox, roused from apparent dozing by the conversation between Mrs. Traill and the three actors, was now sitting upright on her tuffet and listening with a solemn expression.
“Why in God’s name does she dress like that? It’s an outrage. She’s exactly like that early photograph of Mrs. Pat that used to be in my mother’s
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