fighting their cause!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mollification! They’ll leave you alone for hours now!’
‘Ah,’ said Clovis. The gentleman smiled again, and tapped his nose.
Clovis had quite misjudged this man, he was charm personified.
‘They are obviously mostly second- and third-class passengers,’ went on the gentleman urbanely. ‘They often don’t think to ask, the way we might. They don’t have the same expectations. Haven’t they been perfect lambs about waiting all this time?’
‘I suppose …’ said Clovis, admitting to himself that he hadn’t taken very much notice of them. Then, casting around for something to say, ‘Did anybody give you an idea when they might come for you all?’
‘None at all!’ said the other, gaily.
‘I believe my sister was going to telephone. You might want to wait in the library; why don’t we go along? Can I offer you some refreshment?’ (He immediately regretted this last, as seeking out the frenzied Myrtle or Mrs Trieves, in all her subdued distress, for crumpets, or similar stop-gaps didn’t remotely appeal.)
‘Refreshed simply by being here, old man,’ was his new friend’s soothing rejoinder and Clovis found he liked him more and more.
He started along the corridor, followed closely by his smiling companion, and there was silence again behind the morning-room door, as the passengers patiently awaited fresh developments.
Emerald had struggled into her evening gown and its various supports and additions with only brief visits from the supremely harassed Myrtle. The dress, of springtime colours, misted green and early rose, fell from two pearled clasps at the shoulder; it was tight under the bust, barely decent above it, and dropped away into the draped silk and embroidered flowers of a long and very narrow skirt, the bottom half of which emerged from a tulip-shaped over-skirt like the clean stem of a flower.
Her toes peeked out beneath, in buckled shoes, dyed to match by gypsies. (They very often camped nearby and specialised in knives, pans and the dyeing of things.) The buttons down the back had taken Myrtle fifteen minutes to fasten. The dress was quite the most beautiful and infuriating thing Emerald had ever had anything to do with.
‘If I didn’t like it so much I should burn it,’ she said. ‘I must stop talking to myself.’ And she went down to try the Railway again before the guests assembled in the drawing room.
The air of the hall was cold and as she reached for the telephone, goose pimples raised along her bare arms, furring the down upon them in futile defence.
This time, Elsie Goodwin’s voice came hurtling down the line like a corncrake shot from a cannon.
‘ Exchange! ’
‘Yes, Elsie, this is Emerald Torrington, at Sterne.’
‘ Up at Sterne! ’ shrieked Elsie, for whom repetition was both habit and delight.
‘I should like to be put through to the Great Central Railway, please.’
And then, suddenly, the line went quiet. It was as silent as a black pond on a still night as one looks across the water wondering what lies beneath the inky flatness. That is to say, Elsie’s voice was no more and there were no crackles, either. Instead, there came a high and carrying gentleman’s laugh, issuing not from the telephone, but from the library. A strange gentleman? Emerald, still holding the telephone, leaned out from the shelter of the stairs towards the library door, which, standing partially open, afforded a broad glimpse of the room within.
She could see Clovis’s legs and feet sticking out near the hearth. He had his dress shoes on, at least, so she wouldn’t have to slaughter him. There, the laugh came again, a big, tenor, ha ha HA-HA!
Straining further, pulling the telephone cord taut in her efforts, whilst vainly attempting to keep the receiver clamped to her ear, she managed to see the other pair of legs in the room, those belonging to the owner of the laugh. Then, as if to oblige her, both men stood up.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mollification! They’ll leave you alone for hours now!’
‘Ah,’ said Clovis. The gentleman smiled again, and tapped his nose.
Clovis had quite misjudged this man, he was charm personified.
‘They are obviously mostly second- and third-class passengers,’ went on the gentleman urbanely. ‘They often don’t think to ask, the way we might. They don’t have the same expectations. Haven’t they been perfect lambs about waiting all this time?’
‘I suppose …’ said Clovis, admitting to himself that he hadn’t taken very much notice of them. Then, casting around for something to say, ‘Did anybody give you an idea when they might come for you all?’
‘None at all!’ said the other, gaily.
‘I believe my sister was going to telephone. You might want to wait in the library; why don’t we go along? Can I offer you some refreshment?’ (He immediately regretted this last, as seeking out the frenzied Myrtle or Mrs Trieves, in all her subdued distress, for crumpets, or similar stop-gaps didn’t remotely appeal.)
‘Refreshed simply by being here, old man,’ was his new friend’s soothing rejoinder and Clovis found he liked him more and more.
He started along the corridor, followed closely by his smiling companion, and there was silence again behind the morning-room door, as the passengers patiently awaited fresh developments.
Emerald had struggled into her evening gown and its various supports and additions with only brief visits from the supremely harassed Myrtle. The dress, of springtime colours, misted green and early rose, fell from two pearled clasps at the shoulder; it was tight under the bust, barely decent above it, and dropped away into the draped silk and embroidered flowers of a long and very narrow skirt, the bottom half of which emerged from a tulip-shaped over-skirt like the clean stem of a flower.
Her toes peeked out beneath, in buckled shoes, dyed to match by gypsies. (They very often camped nearby and specialised in knives, pans and the dyeing of things.) The buttons down the back had taken Myrtle fifteen minutes to fasten. The dress was quite the most beautiful and infuriating thing Emerald had ever had anything to do with.
‘If I didn’t like it so much I should burn it,’ she said. ‘I must stop talking to myself.’ And she went down to try the Railway again before the guests assembled in the drawing room.
The air of the hall was cold and as she reached for the telephone, goose pimples raised along her bare arms, furring the down upon them in futile defence.
This time, Elsie Goodwin’s voice came hurtling down the line like a corncrake shot from a cannon.
‘ Exchange! ’
‘Yes, Elsie, this is Emerald Torrington, at Sterne.’
‘ Up at Sterne! ’ shrieked Elsie, for whom repetition was both habit and delight.
‘I should like to be put through to the Great Central Railway, please.’
And then, suddenly, the line went quiet. It was as silent as a black pond on a still night as one looks across the water wondering what lies beneath the inky flatness. That is to say, Elsie’s voice was no more and there were no crackles, either. Instead, there came a high and carrying gentleman’s laugh, issuing not from the telephone, but from the library. A strange gentleman? Emerald, still holding the telephone, leaned out from the shelter of the stairs towards the library door, which, standing partially open, afforded a broad glimpse of the room within.
She could see Clovis’s legs and feet sticking out near the hearth. He had his dress shoes on, at least, so she wouldn’t have to slaughter him. There, the laugh came again, a big, tenor, ha ha HA-HA!
Straining further, pulling the telephone cord taut in her efforts, whilst vainly attempting to keep the receiver clamped to her ear, she managed to see the other pair of legs in the room, those belonging to the owner of the laugh. Then, as if to oblige her, both men stood up.
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