window-sill. Caro sat again, taking the cat in her lap. Grace held Dora's blue letter. They could not recall whose turn it was to speak. The Professor came back, saying "I now have decisive information," but Tertia gave no sign of life. Outside the window, the car was kinder because suggestive of fluency and eventual animation.
Paul Ivory was motoring down from London, and should soon arrive. ("Motoring down" was the Professor's choice of phrase.) Ivory's car would swoop up alongside Tertia's, which would almost certainly put it in the shade or the wrong.
"I can't wait," said Tertia, meaning only that she would not. "I dislike reunions." She would assert "I don't like animals," or children, or the ocean, or the spring, confident that her distaste must have importance. Any contrary opinion must be, as she implied, falsely sentimental. Even so, she could not manage to put these two sisters in the wrong or shade. They were actually waiting for her to be gone so they might resume.
Caro recrossed her legs with care. In the sleeping catkin, weight slipped from end to end, as in a bean-bag. The true weight was in the blue envelope on Grace's lap. As to Tertia, Caroline Bell wondered what Benbow had capsized her into this showroom condition.
Grace thought that Tertia would soon say she hated cats.
"I can turn the car right there," Tertia said. "Can't I." Her observations were unsmiling, without doubt or delicacy. They were quoits that fell with tingling, accurate thud around a post. She looked at the room, saying "Good-bye." To Caro she remarked,
"Cats hate me."
When Tertia had gone out with Sefton Thrale, Caro said, "Over-joyed at your happiness. What about something like that?" The only happiness Dora had in fact endorsed was their own.
"We can write it out. I'll cycle down and send it." Tertia's manner had infected them with flatness, and they would never embrace now over Dora's letter. Outside, the car rolled backwards to a herbaceous border, where it crouched to spring. Petrol was exhaled on candytuft. Then Tertia dashed away, scattering small stones.
When they had written out the cable, the second car came, short, closed, dark red. They could see the man with light hair at the wheel, and Ted Tice coming out from the side of the house to help him park. Grace said, "So many things are happening at once. It's a pity they could not be more spread out." Giving, childlike, the measure of their secluded, innocent, yet expectant lives. Ted disappeared from their view, but they could hear him call, "Left" and
"Right" and "Mind out." The young man in the car moved his elbow from the open sill and took the wheel in both hands. He wore a dark, high-necked jersey. His hair fell over his forehead like a schoolboy's.
Wheels turned this way, that way, and off-screen Ted called
"Hold it," like a film director. Grace asked Caro, "D'you want anything when I'm in the village?" but they were watching the red car coming to its halt. The engine stopped, and a young man got out: tall, graceful, and well dressed in a way that was unfamiliar to them.
Paul Ivory was the first Englishman they knew to dress, as everyone dressed later, in a dark-blue jersey like a fisherman's, and to wear light cotton trousers and canvas shoes.
Then came the moment in which Ted was most to blame, since it was he who stopped and looked, and lowered his hand. Whatever spontaneous antipathy announced itself between these two, Paul at least came on, introducing himself and making things possible.
Even as his candid glance went over Ted Tice, sizing up and decid-ing. They did shake hands, but Ted stood impassive while Paul Ivory heaved a leather suitcase from the car and slammed a door.
He might easily have moved away, for the Professor had come out of the house and was saying he could not be more delighted; but instead remained there, awkward and removed, as if dozing in the activity of arrival and determined that Paul Ivory should shine by contrast.
It was a
Paul Ivory was motoring down from London, and should soon arrive. ("Motoring down" was the Professor's choice of phrase.) Ivory's car would swoop up alongside Tertia's, which would almost certainly put it in the shade or the wrong.
"I can't wait," said Tertia, meaning only that she would not. "I dislike reunions." She would assert "I don't like animals," or children, or the ocean, or the spring, confident that her distaste must have importance. Any contrary opinion must be, as she implied, falsely sentimental. Even so, she could not manage to put these two sisters in the wrong or shade. They were actually waiting for her to be gone so they might resume.
Caro recrossed her legs with care. In the sleeping catkin, weight slipped from end to end, as in a bean-bag. The true weight was in the blue envelope on Grace's lap. As to Tertia, Caroline Bell wondered what Benbow had capsized her into this showroom condition.
Grace thought that Tertia would soon say she hated cats.
"I can turn the car right there," Tertia said. "Can't I." Her observations were unsmiling, without doubt or delicacy. They were quoits that fell with tingling, accurate thud around a post. She looked at the room, saying "Good-bye." To Caro she remarked,
"Cats hate me."
When Tertia had gone out with Sefton Thrale, Caro said, "Over-joyed at your happiness. What about something like that?" The only happiness Dora had in fact endorsed was their own.
"We can write it out. I'll cycle down and send it." Tertia's manner had infected them with flatness, and they would never embrace now over Dora's letter. Outside, the car rolled backwards to a herbaceous border, where it crouched to spring. Petrol was exhaled on candytuft. Then Tertia dashed away, scattering small stones.
When they had written out the cable, the second car came, short, closed, dark red. They could see the man with light hair at the wheel, and Ted Tice coming out from the side of the house to help him park. Grace said, "So many things are happening at once. It's a pity they could not be more spread out." Giving, childlike, the measure of their secluded, innocent, yet expectant lives. Ted disappeared from their view, but they could hear him call, "Left" and
"Right" and "Mind out." The young man in the car moved his elbow from the open sill and took the wheel in both hands. He wore a dark, high-necked jersey. His hair fell over his forehead like a schoolboy's.
Wheels turned this way, that way, and off-screen Ted called
"Hold it," like a film director. Grace asked Caro, "D'you want anything when I'm in the village?" but they were watching the red car coming to its halt. The engine stopped, and a young man got out: tall, graceful, and well dressed in a way that was unfamiliar to them.
Paul Ivory was the first Englishman they knew to dress, as everyone dressed later, in a dark-blue jersey like a fisherman's, and to wear light cotton trousers and canvas shoes.
Then came the moment in which Ted was most to blame, since it was he who stopped and looked, and lowered his hand. Whatever spontaneous antipathy announced itself between these two, Paul at least came on, introducing himself and making things possible.
Even as his candid glance went over Ted Tice, sizing up and decid-ing. They did shake hands, but Ted stood impassive while Paul Ivory heaved a leather suitcase from the car and slammed a door.
He might easily have moved away, for the Professor had come out of the house and was saying he could not be more delighted; but instead remained there, awkward and removed, as if dozing in the activity of arrival and determined that Paul Ivory should shine by contrast.
It was a
Similar Books
