B007TB5SP0 EBOK
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‘Very likely!’
‘You’re blasé.’
‘Nothing of the sort.’
‘Poor little Geraldine, her weariness exceeds most things. She says the world’s an “8”.’
‘That’s better than an “o”.’
‘The repetition palls.’
‘There is always a nuance.’
‘It’s better to be an Indifferentist, she says. Not to care! But if anything ever goes wrong … It’s impossible not to smile at her philosophy.’
‘You must be her comfort.’
‘I don’t know what she’d do without me. Because the maid’s a perfect fool. When we arrive anywhere usually it’s I who improve the terms … Gerald hates to bargain. She seems to think it sordid. So I do it for her. Oh, it’s such fun! … Is it to be a back room or a front room, with a double bed or a single bed, or would the lady disdain a back bedroom without any balcony? Then Gerald asserts herself. “The lady requires a balcony with an unobstructed horizon” – and if there isn’t such a thing, then we try elsewhere.’
He stooped a little.
‘It’s the case of a courier,’ he said.
‘I think we ought to turn.’
‘We will,’ he answered, ‘when the road bends. Remember, the world’s an “8”!’
XVI
‘Will you talk to me about the Moon and Stars? … Would it amuse you?’
Miss O’Brookomore raised herself … A young man whom she had never seen until now stood before her.
‘I shall be delighted to talk to you about anything,’ she replied.
‘When did you arrive?’
‘My dear, we only got here yesterday.’
There came a voice of protest.
‘Oh, Gerald! It was the day before.’
‘What are your impressions of Olympia?’
‘I love it, I think it sweet.’
‘Everybody says the same.’
Miss O’Brookomore breathed a sigh.
‘I should like you to be my Literary Executor,’ she said.
He knelt down and took her hand.
‘No, my dear Thing!’ he answered. ‘I’m sorry – but I simply can’t. Simply I should love to, my dear Thing! But it’s impossible …’
Miss Collins rose discreetly.
‘Gerald – I think I shall leave you,’ she said.
XVII
‘Who ever was it, Gerald? …’
Seated before a mirror, her shoulders gilded by the evening sun, Miss O’Brookomore drew a net of sapphire stones across her hair.
‘Some god of the woods – no doubt!’
‘That’s only for a diary … It doesn’t do for me …’
‘Things do happen so quickly!’
‘Very likely it was Cyril Cloudcap …’
‘It may have been Charlie Cumston.’
‘Mer-cy! Gerald.’
‘How soon will you be ready?’
‘I’ve no appetite, Gerald. While the Count’s at Delphi I don’t seem to care.’
‘Foolish girl!’
‘Oh! I do long to be married, Gerald … It’s what I long to be most. Just married, dear.’
‘Not without your parents’ consent.’
‘Nonsense, Gerald!’
‘It’s a caprice that will pass.’
‘Oh, Gerald, his love talk with me and what I reply – it’s a real duet!’
Miss O’Brookomore tucked a few mauve satin flowers into her frock.
‘Aren’t they heavenly?’ she inquired. ‘Especially the purple ones …’
‘Oh, Gerald!’
‘My poor puss—’
‘People’s lives, dearie, don’t seem to be a bit their own once they’re in love.’
‘Love is a seed that needs watering from day to day. Otherwise it dies.’
‘With me it all accumulates.’
‘Don’t let’s miss the sunset – the later half.’
‘It’s a sunset and a sobset, Gerald. Oh, it’s so sad …’
‘In the end everything has to be paid for.’
‘Principally for that I’d sooner I didn’t dine. It really isn’t worth it, Gerald …’
‘No dinner?’
‘Even gratis. Oh, Gerald!’
‘We’re sure to meet the Arbanels.’
‘I tapped at their door as I came along.’
‘I fear that was intrusive.’
‘Directly it dawned upon her it was me she flew forward brandishing a powder-puff.’
‘Her behaviour’s getting Byzantine – more and more.’
Miss Collins folded an arm about her friend.
‘Why do you think it’s Byzantine, Gerald? What ever makes you think it is?’
‘On certain natures environment frequently reacts. I can recall the Queen of Snowland (when a guest at Windsor) frisking off one afternoon into the town in search of lodgings. She came to the very house where I was writing her life … and we met in the front hall.’
‘Oh, good gracious!’
‘Similarly, I feel inclined to believe that Mrs Arbanel in Egypt would be less vivid and more Athenian in her ways.’
‘Can a leopard change its spots, Gerald?’
‘My dear, it can modify them.’
‘I’m surprised you lend her Palmer.’
‘I’ve only offered her, of course, until the faithless Clint can be replaced. Mrs Arbanel hopes to secure someone locally.’
‘I shouldn’t think there were many maids to be found locally, Gerald. I shouldn’t think there was one. Not in Olympia.’
‘The deciphering of their characters, in any case, would require a skilful student,’ Miss O’Brookomore observed as Palmer came in.
Miss Collins rolled her eyes.
‘Thank heaven!’ she exclaimed.
‘It didn’t take you long!’
‘I was as quick with her, miss, as I could be.’
‘We were prepared to hear some screams …’
‘Were I to be stabbed, Miss Mabel, I should endeavour to be considerate.’
‘Violets!’
‘I suppose, poor thing, she is still very dazed?’
‘She seemed lost in reverie, miss.’
‘I expect it’s the air.’
‘She intends to ride to Sparta almost immediately, since Olympia, she hears, is nothing but cliques and coteries.’
‘It’s their season now.’
‘There’s a good deal of entertaining, miss, to-night. Dorinda, Lady Gaiheart, is to have a party for the Irish Archaeological School. And Mrs L. G. Lawson is bringing over some of her friends from the Villa Sophonisba.’
Miss O’Brookomore began muffling a foot up in a silver-spangled shoe.
‘Had I been told earlier I’d have gone into Corinth,’ she said.
‘No doubt you’d have found Miss Dawkins there.’
‘My dear, she’s in Olympia. She arrived this afternoon. I overheard her telling her father’s chest-measurements to the boy that works the lift.’
‘And I dare say half-seas-over?’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Oh, she’s so common, Gerald!’
‘I should like to be on a balcony, miss, for the Recognition.’
‘I dare say she’ll be made to display her birthmarks first.’
‘There’s no need, miss – if you’ll pardon me – for birthmarks with a face like that.’
‘Brute! … You’ve pricked me …’
The sound of the dinner-gong came dwindling up.
‘Oh, the way they beat it!’
Miss O’Brookomore smothered a sigh.
‘It might be the Ramadan!’ she declared.
XVIII
O stars! O perfumes! O night!
In the grey cedar crests, from the blue fir-trees of the Kronian hill, the owls flapped gabbling; among the fields of mournful olives the cicadas called; over the fragments of fallen marble, crushing the wild thyme, the fire-flies flashed; and on the verandah of the Hôtel de France, the scintillation
of her diamonds harmonizing equally with the heavens as with the earth, Dorinda, Lady Gaiheart was finishing a tale.
‘He then walked off with her,’ she said, ‘in an appalling pair of old black slippers.’
‘He didn’t run!’
‘Why should he? Men seldom run away with girls. Not in these days.’
Miss O’Brookomore looked relieved.
‘I always think of Europa,’ she said.
‘That comes from chattering so much about farms.’
‘With daughters of your own I was determined to consult you.’
‘I never bothered. They were just a nest of sisters, until one by one, alas, without requiring my advice, they deserted the family tree.’
‘Her hour of love,
How soon it passed!
It passed ere Mary knew.
And that is the worst of all these rash marriages.’
‘I fear the Arbanels are already getting fidgety.’
‘She was crying so much at dinner, poor thing.’
‘He was telling me they propose to plant a bed of violets, big white single ones, on the Acropolis, to the glory of the delicate and individual artiste, Arne – the “only” Lady Teazle of our time – in the presence of the corps diplomatique and the king and queen.’
‘Tears!’
‘Toilettes!’
‘Speeches!’
‘I expect so!’
Miss Dawkins dropped a sigh.
‘Where’s Troy?’ she said, wheeling round in her chair.
‘You surely don’t think they’re there!’
Lady Dorinda looked reserved.
‘I must rejoin my friends,’ she murmured. ‘In a few minutes we’re all going over to the ruins.’
Miss O’Brookomore lifted up her eyes.
‘I shall stay where I am for the new girl dancer,’ she devoutly mumbled.
‘Is she one of the Sophonisba set?’
‘Mrs Viviott found her … whirling to herself among the Treasuries.’
‘At Tanagra,’ Miss Dawkins said, ‘she was balancing herself, not long ago, in the village street. I was obliged to interrupt her to ask if a smart fair woman with an elderly, stoutish man had been seen that way: S-s-s-s-h! she said. In the evening when the peacocks dance …’
‘I should be afraid of her!’
‘She is really wildly pretty.’
‘Those deep wonder-rings about her eyes are quite unholy.’
‘At dinner Mrs Viviott sat like a player with an unsatisfactory hand at cards.’
‘I hate all ingratitude,’ Miss O’Brookomore observed. ‘In Biography, of course, one sees so much of it …’
‘Tell me! How is it getting on?’
‘Gaps! Gaps! ! Gaps! ! !’
‘There are bound to be a few.’
‘Did you ever meet Max Metal?’ Miss Dawkins asked.
‘No, never.’
‘Or Nodo Vostry?’
‘I don’t remember him.’
‘Or Harry Strai?’
‘I’m sure I never did!’
‘Why? …’
‘In my opinion their books for girls are full of unsound advice.’
‘I’m glad I can still sometimes drug my senses with a book,’ Lady Dorinda exclaimed.
‘Unluckily, racing round as I do, I very rarely find a chance.’
‘You must have met with some adventures by the way.’
Miss Dawkins mixed herself a sombre liqueur.
‘I had a good time in Smyrna,’ she drowsily declared.
‘Only there?’
‘Oh, my dears, I’m weary of streets; so weary!’
‘And have you never found any trace—?’
‘At Palermo, once … I was wandering in the Public Gardens before the hotel, amid blown bus tickets and autumn leaves, when I thought I saw them. Father, anyway. He was standing at an open window of an eau-de-Nil greenhouse. He looked very much younger – altered almost to be a boy. I stood and stared. He smiled. I believe I spoke. And then, before I was able to realize it, I was inside his dark front hall …’
‘Who was he?’
‘I can only tell you he was a dear thing. I shall hope to meet him in heaven.’
Mrs Arbanel swooped up lightly.
‘I respond to the sound of the sea,’ she said, ‘and the tinkle of ice!’
‘Let me make you a Cherry Cobbler.’
‘After interviewing a temporary-maid there’s nothing I’d like more!’
‘Are you satisfied?’
‘Is one ever—’
‘Still, if she understands hair!’
‘That is all she seemed to follow.’
‘She’ll do, I’m sure, for Sparta.’
Miss O’Brookomore unfurled her fan.
‘Frankly, I rather shrink from Sparta,’ she said.
‘What is there to take one there?’
‘I really forget – I believe there’s a crouching Venus.’
‘What does Mr Arbanel say?’
‘He doesn’t say anything. He leaves me to go alone.’
‘What? Isn’t he going at all?’
‘When the weather is milder he may.’
‘A man will have his comforts,’ Lady Dorinda affirmed.
‘I long to hear about your new home.’
‘… Oh well … It’s quite a clever little house … Five bedrooms …’
‘Modest.’
‘If you would care to see the plans—’
‘My dear, there’s no hurry,’ Miss Dawkins said. ‘Any-old-time will do.’
Miss O’Brookomore turned her head stiffly towards the stars.
On all sides through the dusk, intermingling with faint nocturnal noises, rose up a sound of kisses.
She shivered as she felt something touch her own exceedingly sensitive skin.
‘Where have you been, Mabel?’ she asked.
‘Writing letters. I’ve been describing the Temples to mum.’
‘Writing letters,’ Mrs Arbanel said. ‘I think it must be an Olympic Game.’
‘Why, what?’
‘Do you ask me for the rules?’
‘How should I know – the rules?’
‘They’re really very simple … You sit two at a table. A young man, perhaps, and a chit of a girl. With a piece of plate-glass in between. And then, when you’ve drummed with your fingers and played with your pen, you shuffle with your feet, and you throw dying glances over the top.’
Miss Collins challenged.
‘… Prove it!’ she said.
‘Wild girl! You surely don’t suppose I’m going to prove it?’
‘Why, I was sitting with a widow!’
Miss Dawkins speared herself a cherry.
‘Oh, for a quiet corner!’
‘First, Mrs Lawson’s guest is going to dance.’
‘Who, exactly, is she?’
‘She’s a pupil of Tasajara, Gerald.’
Miss O’Brookomore’s nose grew long.
‘I never heard of her,’ she said.
‘Oh, she’s a study, Gerald.’
‘One sees so many artists here—’
‘With a water-colour in the Academy. Some people seem to think it permissible to look a little mad and to behave as if they really were …’
‘I heard the flowers scream as I picked them!’ Mrs Erso-Ennis was saying as she scattered a shower of blossoms upon the floor.
‘If it’s to be Botticelli—’ Miss O’Brookomore complained.
Mrs Erso-Ennis looked indignant.
‘Botticelli! … I invented the whole thing just now.’
‘How could you!’
‘It’s the Hesitation of Klytemnestra. The poor Queen, you see, cannot quite bring herself to kill the King, and while he sleeps she performs a suite of interesting, idyllic poses over him with a knife.’
‘Better wait, Gerald,’ Miss Collins advised.
Mrs Erso-Ennis flung a few last leaves of roses.
‘Oh! Think of the earwigs!’
‘At the summer sales in Athens,’ Miss Dawkins seraphically said, ‘I picked up a regular siren’s gown … Looped up upon one side to reveal the knee.’
‘What you have now, if one may say so, is also very original.’
‘It doesn’t fit. But it isn’t meant to,’ Miss Dawkins replied.
Mrs Erso-Ennis directed her eyes to the room.
On a couch, destined to be the royal bed, a young woman, evidently a prima donna, was caressing rapturously her little boy.
‘My son,’ she was saying, ‘my opera … x! Opera … xx! My Johannes … ! ! My bébé! …’
‘She must be removed, I fear.’
‘And there’re some horrid arrivals, too.’
For those with ears fine enough Miss Collins caused an innocent bud to wail.
‘Oh, Gerald,’ she said, ‘who do you think is here?’
‘Not—!’
‘He’s in the bus, dearie!’
‘My poor puss … You’ve turned quite pale.’
‘Oh, the shock to me, Gerald! …’
‘You look so tired, dear … so sad and so worn out.’
‘It’s because I’m dead beat, Gerald.’
‘Feel faint, at all?’
‘No – but I’ve never felt like this before, Gerald … You little know how I feel – I could not have believed it was possible.’
XIX
‘Sixteen of them,’ she counted, ‘and a diamond drop!’
‘Au revoir. Until to-night.’
‘Oh, the rush!’
‘You’re ready? Packed—’
‘All I dare. I could hardly bring away my big box – the one with the furs and flannels! …’
‘You’ll need your passport.’
‘It’s lost.’
‘Lost!’
‘Gerald must have burnt it, she says, among her papers. She’s everlastingly burning things. She lights her fire in the evening just as she bolts her door … And then she burns things, and dreams things, and pokes things, and mutters things – l’heure exquise, she calls it.’
‘… Very likely.’
‘I’ve an idea it’s rheumatics, poor soul …’
‘M-a-b-e-l!’ Miss O’Brookomore called again.
‘I must go to her …’
‘One kiss!’
‘O-o-o-o-h!’