and she said to the French couple:
‘My maid will rub me with it.’
They at once looked at Mrs Trollope and drew together a bit.
The French husband, in a shop-made striped suit and pointed shoes, with a thin harassed face, had brought Miss Chillard some chocolates, an offering which he had shyly put out of the way on the table, for he could see it was not appropriate to her grand manner. The French couple looked at Lilia with such reticence that Lilia felt she was intruding. Perhaps there was a secret between the three. She excused herself after putting the water-biscuits on a bedside table and saying:
‘I should be glad to make tea for you.’
Oh, no, thank you. I am trying to explain to them what I want but they don’t understand. I met them at Zermatt and they were very good to me. They are generous creatures, but they don’t know what I want.’
The French couple were saying: ‘Oh, but you must eat; pills are a poor substitute for food.’
There had been no introduction and Mrs Trollope knew she was taken for a maid, a common trick of genteel women down on their luck. Sometimes Madame Blaise tried it on, when they were shopping in Lausanne, making out that Mrs Trollope was a professional guide or shopper: once Mrs Trollope had been offered a buyer’s percentage.
Shortly after, she heard the French couple on the landing. She looked out with the idea of asking them a question; but as they stood dubiously and dowdily side by side, deploring something, and as they huddled together when they saw her, she withdrew.
After a time she went back and said to Miss Chillard, who was lying flat on her back staring in front of her:
‘You know, our rooms are next to yours. Just knock if you feel faint in the night and I will come.’
‘Oh, thank you so much; oh, I think I would rather rouse the night-watchman than you.’
‘Oh, no. That’s Charlie. You know he is also the porter and is ill. He sleeps on the couch in the parlour. He needs sleep. He should be in hospital. Please call me. My husband’s room is next to yours.’
‘Yes, I know, thank you,’ said Miss Chillard, still staring in front of her. Mrs Trollope was unhappy. She did not like to say Mr Wilkins was her husband, but she did not like to tell her story immediately to a stranger, and she felt ashamed of herself with unmarried women: she thought they suffered so much. But Miss Chillard, a roomer in hotels, pensions and friends’ houses since a child, might understand?
When they were having their rum, she said to Mr Wilkins:
‘We are English; shouldn’t we do something about poor Miss Chillard?’
‘Why? She has survived to the age of thirty-five without us.’
‘But it is different now. And I feel for the honour of the English on the Continent. It is the unpaid bills.’
‘Frankly, Lilia, what honour do you think the English have ever had on the Continent?’
‘That’s a strange thing to say.’
‘The English have always been mocked as unreliable, awkward, ignorant, provincial and poor.’
‘Robert, it is the Scot in you that says that.’
He said nothing.
‘If she knocks in the night, let me know.’
‘I shall probably not hear a sound.’
‘I am afraid she is really ill, though.’
‘If she dies, what difference will it make to you, Lilia?’
‘You make friends so easily, Robert. People remark about your charm and ease of manner. They do not see you as you really are.’
‘Let’s go and rest. Tomorrow we have this dinner with the Blaises.’
‘And, Robert, we must take out this man who is trying to sell you a car; we must take out the Pallintosts.’
Wilkins said: ‘Yes. Well, I have invited them for tomorrow evening too. It is my party. I drew out a bit more money than I expected. I think it a bit stiff that when they are here to sell me a car I should have to take them out as well, but I shall take it off his commission, Pallintost’s I mean.’
Lilia went into her room and shut the door. Immediately, she
‘My maid will rub me with it.’
They at once looked at Mrs Trollope and drew together a bit.
The French husband, in a shop-made striped suit and pointed shoes, with a thin harassed face, had brought Miss Chillard some chocolates, an offering which he had shyly put out of the way on the table, for he could see it was not appropriate to her grand manner. The French couple looked at Lilia with such reticence that Lilia felt she was intruding. Perhaps there was a secret between the three. She excused herself after putting the water-biscuits on a bedside table and saying:
‘I should be glad to make tea for you.’
Oh, no, thank you. I am trying to explain to them what I want but they don’t understand. I met them at Zermatt and they were very good to me. They are generous creatures, but they don’t know what I want.’
The French couple were saying: ‘Oh, but you must eat; pills are a poor substitute for food.’
There had been no introduction and Mrs Trollope knew she was taken for a maid, a common trick of genteel women down on their luck. Sometimes Madame Blaise tried it on, when they were shopping in Lausanne, making out that Mrs Trollope was a professional guide or shopper: once Mrs Trollope had been offered a buyer’s percentage.
Shortly after, she heard the French couple on the landing. She looked out with the idea of asking them a question; but as they stood dubiously and dowdily side by side, deploring something, and as they huddled together when they saw her, she withdrew.
After a time she went back and said to Miss Chillard, who was lying flat on her back staring in front of her:
‘You know, our rooms are next to yours. Just knock if you feel faint in the night and I will come.’
‘Oh, thank you so much; oh, I think I would rather rouse the night-watchman than you.’
‘Oh, no. That’s Charlie. You know he is also the porter and is ill. He sleeps on the couch in the parlour. He needs sleep. He should be in hospital. Please call me. My husband’s room is next to yours.’
‘Yes, I know, thank you,’ said Miss Chillard, still staring in front of her. Mrs Trollope was unhappy. She did not like to say Mr Wilkins was her husband, but she did not like to tell her story immediately to a stranger, and she felt ashamed of herself with unmarried women: she thought they suffered so much. But Miss Chillard, a roomer in hotels, pensions and friends’ houses since a child, might understand?
When they were having their rum, she said to Mr Wilkins:
‘We are English; shouldn’t we do something about poor Miss Chillard?’
‘Why? She has survived to the age of thirty-five without us.’
‘But it is different now. And I feel for the honour of the English on the Continent. It is the unpaid bills.’
‘Frankly, Lilia, what honour do you think the English have ever had on the Continent?’
‘That’s a strange thing to say.’
‘The English have always been mocked as unreliable, awkward, ignorant, provincial and poor.’
‘Robert, it is the Scot in you that says that.’
He said nothing.
‘If she knocks in the night, let me know.’
‘I shall probably not hear a sound.’
‘I am afraid she is really ill, though.’
‘If she dies, what difference will it make to you, Lilia?’
‘You make friends so easily, Robert. People remark about your charm and ease of manner. They do not see you as you really are.’
‘Let’s go and rest. Tomorrow we have this dinner with the Blaises.’
‘And, Robert, we must take out this man who is trying to sell you a car; we must take out the Pallintosts.’
Wilkins said: ‘Yes. Well, I have invited them for tomorrow evening too. It is my party. I drew out a bit more money than I expected. I think it a bit stiff that when they are here to sell me a car I should have to take them out as well, but I shall take it off his commission, Pallintost’s I mean.’
Lilia went into her room and shut the door. Immediately, she
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