we’re going to be great friends. It was in my stars yesterday that I should make a good friend and I took to you at once. I always know.”
The kind flood of talk seemed to Mary to be slowly filling the little room, mounting higher and higher up the paneled walls like—no, not like honey, for there was strength and power in honey, but like warm very runny apricot jam. She pulled one of the little gold chairs forward, hoping it would bear Mrs. Hepplewhite’s weight. Laughter was rising in her, and iron determination not to dine tonight, and at the same time a liking for Mrs. Hepplewhite, and admiration for the perfection of her presentation. That was the right word, Mary thought. To say that Mrs. Hepplewhite dressed well was true but inadequate. With her immaculate makeup, in her perfect tweeds, a wreath of soft blue feathers on her beautiful blue-rinsed white hair and a single string of fine pearls around her neck, she presented the countrywoman of wealth and taste as a great actress would have done, everything she wore as integral a part of her presentation as her movements and the inflections of her voice. She
was
a great actress and it was the genius of the actress that Mary admired, though her liking was reserved for a woman now so buried that she might never know her. She did not believe that Mrs. Hepplewhite had been christened Hermione. What had made her choose the name? Did it symbolize for her the new woman she had put on so costingly? One could tell that the attainment had been hard, for there was a look of strain about her kind blue eyes and her color beneath her powder was too high. But for vigorous corseting, and probably dieting, she would have been stout, and Mary realized with keen sympathy that she would have liked to be stout, would have loved to let her tall upright figure sag in private moments of fatigue, but that she never did. The stiff armor of her corsets was a symbol of some dedication in her. To what? To whom? wondered Mary, and returning suddenly to the surface realized that for the last three minutes Mrs. Hepplewhite’s conversation had been mounting about her without her comprehension. “Archer shall fetch you in the Bentley at seven-thirty,” was the final sentence.
“Mrs. Hepplewhite, I’m so sorry, but I am engaged tonight,” said Mary.
Mrs. Hepplewhite dived cheerfully into her bag, produced a tiny diary covered in scarlet leather and flicked over its pages. “Tomorrow evening I’ve a meeting. I’m on so many committees. One likes to do what one can. Tuesday we dine out ourselves. Not Wednesday. My husband won’t be home until late on Wednesday and he’s dying to meet you. He saw you. Did I tell you? You didn’t see him. Oh dear, we go away for a long weekend. Tuesday week?”
“Thank you,” said Mary. “Tuesday week.”
Mrs. Hepplewhite noted the date in the little diary with a small golden pencil. “Archer, that’s our chauffeur, shall fetch you at seven-thirty. And now, my dear, I must tear myself away. We’ve weekend guests. It’s been delightful to meet you and I hope we shall see a great deal of each other. Who are you getting to do up this house for you? You must have Roundham at Westwater. We always have them ourselves. Ring them tomorrow. Tell them I recommended them. What did you say? Baker at Thornton? But, my dear, they’ll ruin the place. Cancel the order. Let me ring Roundham for you myself. I’ll do it tomorrow. Oh? Oh yes, I see. Never mind.”
They had got as far as the hall and for a moment she was crestfallen as a child, but then like a child she was happy again with a new idea. “Your hair, my dear. There’s quite a good place at Westwater, when you haven’t time to go up to town. A Belgian, a very charming man. I’ll tell him about you. No, don’t thank me. What are we here for but to help each other? Have you a dog?” They were under the wistaria and Mary speechlessly shook her head. “Oh, but you must have a dog. They’re such
The kind flood of talk seemed to Mary to be slowly filling the little room, mounting higher and higher up the paneled walls like—no, not like honey, for there was strength and power in honey, but like warm very runny apricot jam. She pulled one of the little gold chairs forward, hoping it would bear Mrs. Hepplewhite’s weight. Laughter was rising in her, and iron determination not to dine tonight, and at the same time a liking for Mrs. Hepplewhite, and admiration for the perfection of her presentation. That was the right word, Mary thought. To say that Mrs. Hepplewhite dressed well was true but inadequate. With her immaculate makeup, in her perfect tweeds, a wreath of soft blue feathers on her beautiful blue-rinsed white hair and a single string of fine pearls around her neck, she presented the countrywoman of wealth and taste as a great actress would have done, everything she wore as integral a part of her presentation as her movements and the inflections of her voice. She
was
a great actress and it was the genius of the actress that Mary admired, though her liking was reserved for a woman now so buried that she might never know her. She did not believe that Mrs. Hepplewhite had been christened Hermione. What had made her choose the name? Did it symbolize for her the new woman she had put on so costingly? One could tell that the attainment had been hard, for there was a look of strain about her kind blue eyes and her color beneath her powder was too high. But for vigorous corseting, and probably dieting, she would have been stout, and Mary realized with keen sympathy that she would have liked to be stout, would have loved to let her tall upright figure sag in private moments of fatigue, but that she never did. The stiff armor of her corsets was a symbol of some dedication in her. To what? To whom? wondered Mary, and returning suddenly to the surface realized that for the last three minutes Mrs. Hepplewhite’s conversation had been mounting about her without her comprehension. “Archer shall fetch you in the Bentley at seven-thirty,” was the final sentence.
“Mrs. Hepplewhite, I’m so sorry, but I am engaged tonight,” said Mary.
Mrs. Hepplewhite dived cheerfully into her bag, produced a tiny diary covered in scarlet leather and flicked over its pages. “Tomorrow evening I’ve a meeting. I’m on so many committees. One likes to do what one can. Tuesday we dine out ourselves. Not Wednesday. My husband won’t be home until late on Wednesday and he’s dying to meet you. He saw you. Did I tell you? You didn’t see him. Oh dear, we go away for a long weekend. Tuesday week?”
“Thank you,” said Mary. “Tuesday week.”
Mrs. Hepplewhite noted the date in the little diary with a small golden pencil. “Archer, that’s our chauffeur, shall fetch you at seven-thirty. And now, my dear, I must tear myself away. We’ve weekend guests. It’s been delightful to meet you and I hope we shall see a great deal of each other. Who are you getting to do up this house for you? You must have Roundham at Westwater. We always have them ourselves. Ring them tomorrow. Tell them I recommended them. What did you say? Baker at Thornton? But, my dear, they’ll ruin the place. Cancel the order. Let me ring Roundham for you myself. I’ll do it tomorrow. Oh? Oh yes, I see. Never mind.”
They had got as far as the hall and for a moment she was crestfallen as a child, but then like a child she was happy again with a new idea. “Your hair, my dear. There’s quite a good place at Westwater, when you haven’t time to go up to town. A Belgian, a very charming man. I’ll tell him about you. No, don’t thank me. What are we here for but to help each other? Have you a dog?” They were under the wistaria and Mary speechlessly shook her head. “Oh, but you must have a dog. They’re such
Similar Books
