show of instinct so pronounced that Grace half-turned from the window, waiting for Caro to interpret.
Caro was thinking that, in England, class distrust might destroy even the best, by distracting their energies. She was watching with some large feeling, less than love, in which approval and exasperation merged to a pang that Ted Tice should supply, in a little scene of varnished attitudes and systematic exchanges, the indispensable humanity. She was used by now to his providing strokes of comprehension that were strong experiences in themselves; but on this occasion he stood on gravel with his hands dangling, and had no apparent consciousness of Caro or anyone else. While she observed, and wondered what impulse worked on him.
Paul Ivory looked at the low window where the young women, standing, were almost at his level. He smiled out of a handsome, fair, and fortunate face, acknowledging pleasant surprise with such controlled openness that no surprise remained. And the sisters smiled back in the serious way they had for such moments. Only Charmian Thrale, at an open door, made a contrast between this auspicious arrival and the way in which Ted Tice had been washed up out of a storm; remembering how Caro had looked down that morning from the staircase, and gone away.
W h e n Paul Ivory walked in espadrilles on the paths and passages of Peverel, the sound inaugurated, softly, the modern era. As did his cotton jerseys—some blue, some black—and trousers of pale poplin. The modern era, like the weather, was making these possible. Paul had brought the sun, and his luck, with him. Early on warm mornings, the girls pressed flowered dresses in a room by the kitchen where an ironing-table was covered by a worn blanket and there was an old stone sink. Ted Tice's fair-isle pullover and sea-green cardigan in cable stitch had been put away, perhaps forever.
Mrs. Charmian Thrale told Paul Ivory, "I recall you as a perfect child. The only child ever to captivate my father." It was her way of saying, What a charming and indeed blessed young person; and of sketching, most delicately, her own desolate childhood. Paul took praise well, unembarrassed, diffidently pleased. It was not usual at that period to see a young man frankly enjoying the fact of youth and taking justified pleasure in his own health and good looks. In his early and deserved distinction, he made the future seem less formless.
Paul's play would be produced in London in the autumn. In preparation he received telephone calls and registered envelopes.
There were mornings when he must not be interrupted, because of adding or rewriting. The play was called Friend of Caesar, and had been announced in the press as presenting a contemporary family as an analogy of political power. Paul himself read this out with a smile. A celebrated actor had agreed to play the leading role.
Paul Ivory was a man of promise in a literal sense: circumstances had made a solemn undertaking to see Paul prosper. His play would be widely and justly praised. Provincial towns and foreign cities would clamour for it, and a famous director would make a successful film. The radiant pre-eminence of Paul's engagement with events was far more bridal than his prospective betrothal to Tertia Drage.
In its subtlety and confidence Paul's physical beauty, like his character, suggested technique. As some fine portrait might be underpainted dark" where it showed light, or light where dark, so might Paul Ivory be subliminally cold where warm, warm where cold—the tones overlapping to create, ingeniously, a strong yet fluid delineation. Similarly, his limbs might seem the instruments or weapons of grace rather than its simple evidence. Paul's at-tenuated fingers turned up at their tips with extreme sensitivity, as if testing a surface for heat.
Sefton Thrale told Ted Tice, "Paul will make his mark." Like praising a pretty girl to a plain one. And yet there was the sense that Paul Ivory and Ted Tice were both
Caro was thinking that, in England, class distrust might destroy even the best, by distracting their energies. She was watching with some large feeling, less than love, in which approval and exasperation merged to a pang that Ted Tice should supply, in a little scene of varnished attitudes and systematic exchanges, the indispensable humanity. She was used by now to his providing strokes of comprehension that were strong experiences in themselves; but on this occasion he stood on gravel with his hands dangling, and had no apparent consciousness of Caro or anyone else. While she observed, and wondered what impulse worked on him.
Paul Ivory looked at the low window where the young women, standing, were almost at his level. He smiled out of a handsome, fair, and fortunate face, acknowledging pleasant surprise with such controlled openness that no surprise remained. And the sisters smiled back in the serious way they had for such moments. Only Charmian Thrale, at an open door, made a contrast between this auspicious arrival and the way in which Ted Tice had been washed up out of a storm; remembering how Caro had looked down that morning from the staircase, and gone away.
W h e n Paul Ivory walked in espadrilles on the paths and passages of Peverel, the sound inaugurated, softly, the modern era. As did his cotton jerseys—some blue, some black—and trousers of pale poplin. The modern era, like the weather, was making these possible. Paul had brought the sun, and his luck, with him. Early on warm mornings, the girls pressed flowered dresses in a room by the kitchen where an ironing-table was covered by a worn blanket and there was an old stone sink. Ted Tice's fair-isle pullover and sea-green cardigan in cable stitch had been put away, perhaps forever.
Mrs. Charmian Thrale told Paul Ivory, "I recall you as a perfect child. The only child ever to captivate my father." It was her way of saying, What a charming and indeed blessed young person; and of sketching, most delicately, her own desolate childhood. Paul took praise well, unembarrassed, diffidently pleased. It was not usual at that period to see a young man frankly enjoying the fact of youth and taking justified pleasure in his own health and good looks. In his early and deserved distinction, he made the future seem less formless.
Paul's play would be produced in London in the autumn. In preparation he received telephone calls and registered envelopes.
There were mornings when he must not be interrupted, because of adding or rewriting. The play was called Friend of Caesar, and had been announced in the press as presenting a contemporary family as an analogy of political power. Paul himself read this out with a smile. A celebrated actor had agreed to play the leading role.
Paul Ivory was a man of promise in a literal sense: circumstances had made a solemn undertaking to see Paul prosper. His play would be widely and justly praised. Provincial towns and foreign cities would clamour for it, and a famous director would make a successful film. The radiant pre-eminence of Paul's engagement with events was far more bridal than his prospective betrothal to Tertia Drage.
In its subtlety and confidence Paul's physical beauty, like his character, suggested technique. As some fine portrait might be underpainted dark" where it showed light, or light where dark, so might Paul Ivory be subliminally cold where warm, warm where cold—the tones overlapping to create, ingeniously, a strong yet fluid delineation. Similarly, his limbs might seem the instruments or weapons of grace rather than its simple evidence. Paul's at-tenuated fingers turned up at their tips with extreme sensitivity, as if testing a surface for heat.
Sefton Thrale told Ted Tice, "Paul will make his mark." Like praising a pretty girl to a plain one. And yet there was the sense that Paul Ivory and Ted Tice were both
Similar Books
