second time that day I felt the pangs of acquisitiveness.
“I’d like to give it to you,” said C. D. right out of the blue. “Please. Would you like it? Do let me buy it for you.”
I caught myself. I must remember I was a nice young girl, I was honourable. I was not a gold-digger.
“Don’t be silly,” I said lightly taking the pin off and putting it down on the case. “I couldn’t accept it.”
“No, of course not. I say, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
On the other hand there was nothing to be gained by coming on like a prig, either. “Some other time, perhaps,” I murmured silkily. And as he stood there baffled I turned to leave, reflecting that though one played many roles to attract a man one must be careful not to play them all at once.
Back down the billowing staircase we floated, the Archduke and I, and “
Goodnight lad-ies!
” the ghostly violins sawed away, resolutely propelling us into the night.
“Which would you choose—a brooch of Georgian paste or an early Meissen coffee-set?” asked C. D.
I considered. “It would depend what I was up to—what part of my life I’m at; if I was at a certain point, well, like now for instance, I’d choose the brooch. As an eye-catcher, to let it kind of speak up for me. But if I were in love...”
“If you were in love? Go on.”
“Well, I can see myself having breakfast on some sunny terrace and I can see that coffee-set harmonising eloquently into the surroundings. And I can see myself pouring...”
“And who can you see sitting opposite you?”
“No one.”
But suddenly I saw C. D. standing behind me, touching my hair as I bent over, admiring the picture I made. “I think I’d choose the coffee-set anyway,” I surprised myself by saying.
We were walking through a mews full of parked cars en route to Dody’s flat. “Which would you choose: Made in America or Made in England?” C. D. paused pointedly between a sleek, shiny Jaguar and a poor old beat-up Chevrolet that looked as if it
had made the long hot journey on foot, its excess of fintails, bumpers and chrome splattered and dented and limp with exhaustion “—come away from that filthy Da Sota or whatever it is, this minute! You’ll be covered in dirt. What are you doing with your nose buried in it?”
“That is the limit!” I exploded. “Talk about hospitality. Someone’s been scrawling obscenities with their fingers all over the windshield. What’s it say? Probably ‘Yankee Go Home,’ or some such gracious invitation. I can’t make it out. What’s it say?”
“I am not an archaeologist. I don’t read dust,” said C. D. with dignity, taking out his handkerchief and fastidiously brushing himself clean from its contaminating contact. “Ah you’re smiling again, that’s better. I say, you mustn’t pick one up so, I was only having my little joke about the wretched vehicle, you know.”
Night had fallen. The ill-lit mews seemed full of sinister shapes lurking behind implacable facades of parked automobiles; the air was poisoned with fumes of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Dark patches on the ground, probably from leaking tanks, looked as if they might be blood. I began walking faster. The brick pavement underfoot was bumpy. I tripped and stumbled along, longing to break into a run. Curtains were drawn tightly across the windows of the mews cottages. Suddenly it was the gas-lit London of Victorian England and I was all alone in a dark alley with a demoniacal stranger. My scream would not be heard until too late. My body-heat accelerated by fear reached its boiling point, melted into a sweat and trickled in rivulets down the insides of my arms and between my breasts. I was panting by the time we reached Dody’s. I leaned against a shop window to catch my breath.
“You’re deathly pale, child,” said C. D. in alarm. “See here, I’ve worn you out traipsing you around town like this. You’ll want a nice cup of tea to bring you round. We’ll have young Mrs.
“I’d like to give it to you,” said C. D. right out of the blue. “Please. Would you like it? Do let me buy it for you.”
I caught myself. I must remember I was a nice young girl, I was honourable. I was not a gold-digger.
“Don’t be silly,” I said lightly taking the pin off and putting it down on the case. “I couldn’t accept it.”
“No, of course not. I say, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
On the other hand there was nothing to be gained by coming on like a prig, either. “Some other time, perhaps,” I murmured silkily. And as he stood there baffled I turned to leave, reflecting that though one played many roles to attract a man one must be careful not to play them all at once.
Back down the billowing staircase we floated, the Archduke and I, and “
Goodnight lad-ies!
” the ghostly violins sawed away, resolutely propelling us into the night.
“Which would you choose—a brooch of Georgian paste or an early Meissen coffee-set?” asked C. D.
I considered. “It would depend what I was up to—what part of my life I’m at; if I was at a certain point, well, like now for instance, I’d choose the brooch. As an eye-catcher, to let it kind of speak up for me. But if I were in love...”
“If you were in love? Go on.”
“Well, I can see myself having breakfast on some sunny terrace and I can see that coffee-set harmonising eloquently into the surroundings. And I can see myself pouring...”
“And who can you see sitting opposite you?”
“No one.”
But suddenly I saw C. D. standing behind me, touching my hair as I bent over, admiring the picture I made. “I think I’d choose the coffee-set anyway,” I surprised myself by saying.
We were walking through a mews full of parked cars en route to Dody’s flat. “Which would you choose: Made in America or Made in England?” C. D. paused pointedly between a sleek, shiny Jaguar and a poor old beat-up Chevrolet that looked as if it
had made the long hot journey on foot, its excess of fintails, bumpers and chrome splattered and dented and limp with exhaustion “—come away from that filthy Da Sota or whatever it is, this minute! You’ll be covered in dirt. What are you doing with your nose buried in it?”
“That is the limit!” I exploded. “Talk about hospitality. Someone’s been scrawling obscenities with their fingers all over the windshield. What’s it say? Probably ‘Yankee Go Home,’ or some such gracious invitation. I can’t make it out. What’s it say?”
“I am not an archaeologist. I don’t read dust,” said C. D. with dignity, taking out his handkerchief and fastidiously brushing himself clean from its contaminating contact. “Ah you’re smiling again, that’s better. I say, you mustn’t pick one up so, I was only having my little joke about the wretched vehicle, you know.”
Night had fallen. The ill-lit mews seemed full of sinister shapes lurking behind implacable facades of parked automobiles; the air was poisoned with fumes of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Dark patches on the ground, probably from leaking tanks, looked as if they might be blood. I began walking faster. The brick pavement underfoot was bumpy. I tripped and stumbled along, longing to break into a run. Curtains were drawn tightly across the windows of the mews cottages. Suddenly it was the gas-lit London of Victorian England and I was all alone in a dark alley with a demoniacal stranger. My scream would not be heard until too late. My body-heat accelerated by fear reached its boiling point, melted into a sweat and trickled in rivulets down the insides of my arms and between my breasts. I was panting by the time we reached Dody’s. I leaned against a shop window to catch my breath.
“You’re deathly pale, child,” said C. D. in alarm. “See here, I’ve worn you out traipsing you around town like this. You’ll want a nice cup of tea to bring you round. We’ll have young Mrs.
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