Westwood by Stella Gibbons Page A

passage.
    ‘I’m a schoolteacher.’
    ‘Why, that’s vurry interesting,’ said Earl, turning to look at her. ‘I was a professor myself at Swordsville Carllage before I volunteered. May I ask where you were educated? Excuse me, this way.’ He preceded her down the stairs.
    Margaret thought that he seemed very young to be a professor but had no time to say anything more, because he was leading the way into the sitting-room.
    Hebe was on a couch with her feet up, and the room was dim in amber light and full of the scent of dying violets. The dark soldier and Alexander Niland were standing talking by a tray of drinks.
    ‘Hullo,’ said Hebe, smiling. ‘Lev, bring some sherry over. She’s got to fly off with Grantey.’
    ‘Light or dark?’ asked the soldier, turning to Margaret with a decanter in each hand. He had a big nose and dark bloodshot eyes and she disliked his expression.
    ‘Oh – er – light, please.’
    ‘This is Arnold Levinsky,’ said Earl, as the soldier came over to her with the drink. ‘Lev, meet Miss Margaret Steggles, of Highgate, London.’
    Margaret muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ which seemed to be the formula, and Lev made a vague flip of his unoccupied hand and looked down at her with a casual smile, but he did not speak and at once went back to Alexander Niland. Margaret sat on the edge of her chair, nervously sipping her sherry. No one took any notice of her and she tried to make the most of her last few minutes in Lamb Cottage, for very soon the enchanted afternoon would be over. She longed to say something that would startle and impress them all and make them want to see her again, but it was of no use; she could not think of even the most ordinary remark, not even a comment upon the baby’s jacket which Hebe was placidly knitting, and she sat there in silence, feeling a growing resentment against them which mingled uncomfortably with her fascinated interest.
    She began to listen to what Alexander Niland and Lev were talking about, but was disappointed to find that it concerned the difficulty of obtaining matches. The painter was holding up a box to the light, which fell slantingly upon his slightly podgy cheeks, and saying:
    ‘Well, I got these from that little man in Holly Square. He let me have them because he knows us, but he told me he has two or three hundred boxes in every Thursday, and they’re gone in a couple of hours.’
    ‘You’re telling me,’ said Lev.
    ‘I once knew a man who collected match-boxes,’ put in Hebe. ‘Alex, would your stew be burning?’
    ‘Oh, God, yes, excuse me,’ he said and hurried out of the room. No one said anything. Hebe continued to knit, and Earl, who was standing near the head of the couch, watched her flying fingers, while Lev had picked up the evening paper and was glancing over it. How rude they are, thought Margaret; the Wilsons have much nicer manners. Not that these people say anything worth listening to when they do talk. I wouldn’t have believed a genius, and anyone so fascinating as Mrs Niland, could have been so dull.
    ‘Is your home far from here, Miss Steggles?’ suddenly inquired Earl earnestly, crossing the room and sitting down at her side. She turned to him gratefully, thinking how kind and perceptive he was, and that he at least hadnice manners.
    ‘About three miles. I live on the other side of Highgate Hill,’ she answered.
    ‘Highgate Hill? Then I expect you know the beautiful home of Mrs Niland’s parents,’ said Earl. ‘Lev and I hope to have the pleasure of visiting therr soon.’
    ‘No, she doesn’t,’ put in Hebe, ‘but she does live quite near my mamma and papa.’ Margaret was surprised, but then reflected that Grantey must have been talking to Mrs Niland.
    ‘Oh, it’s a swell place,’ went on Earl, ‘the sort of house we think of at home as typically English.’
    ‘There are some typically English ones in the back streets round Euston depot, too – what’s left of them,’ put in