B007TB5SP0 EBOK (36 page)

‘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.

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!’

‘In these old-fashioned places one should only wear short skirts.’

‘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.’

‘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!’

‘Another!’

‘Not till we get in the train.’

‘
Cara mia dolce!
’

‘And thanks very much for the diamonds,’ Miss Collins replied.

Loitering up and down the hall among the tubs of orange-trees – now in full flower – Miss O’Brookomore was growing ruffled.

‘It’s charming!’ she said. ‘It appears he’s on our floor.’

‘Oh no, he’s not, Gerald … He’s on the floor above. Right overhead, dearie.’

Miss O’Brookomore looked away.

‘There are people, I find, who have no heads,’ she ruefully remarked. ‘They’ve lost them.’

‘I don’t know why you should dislike him, Gerald. Because he doesn’t you. He calls you the pretty priestess …’

The Biographer unbent a shade.

‘Does he?’ she inquired.

‘Are you going for your walk?’

‘I told Miss Dawkins we would help her to find her parents.’

‘It’s too late to go far, dearie.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘How can she expect to find them, Gerald, sitting all day with a Gin Daisy or a Brandy Flip? Tell me that now!’

‘Anyway we might take a turn round the garden … If they’re here at all I expect they’re in the shrubbery.’

It was the hour when, to a subtle string band, the bustling waiters would be bringing tea.

‘Oh, the Sophonisbas, Gerald! – some of them.’

Their tired, art-stained faces turned towards a little Saint with rose lips, eyes and crown, Mrs Erso-Ennis and Mrs Viviott were overwhelming with attentions the pupil of Tasajara.

‘Mercy, Gerald!’

‘
Hein!
’

‘There’s bound to be heart-burnings, Gerald.’

‘… I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘And there’s your God-of-the-Wood, dearie …’

Miss O’Brookomore changed her course.

‘
Not
before the windows!’ she exclaimed.

‘Olympia for love, Gerald.’

‘Olympia for tattle.’

‘Oh, Gerald! I mean to fling in my lot with a crowd of absolute strangers …’

‘What!’

‘Love isn’t logical, Gerald.’

‘Alas!’

‘Oh! Gerald!’

‘What has your friend a year?’

‘How should I know, dearie?’

‘It’s important to know.’

‘It’s better to be poor – I’ve often heard mum say – than to have a soft seat in hell.’

‘An Italian is very easily enamoured.’

‘I love his dark plastered hair, Gerald. I think it quite sweet.’

‘It isn’t enough …’

‘He’s like somebody from Marathon, Gerald!’

‘You’re young yet.’

‘Oh, Gerald, when he sang the Shepherd-Star-Song from
Tannhäuser
and gave that shake! … You can’t think how much I was moved … How I responded …’

‘His
catches from Butterfly
would get on my nerves!’

‘Had I nerves like you I couldn’t rest without a passport.’

‘It’s tiresome, I admit.’

‘It’s that, dearie …’

‘Don’t despond!’

‘Suppose they detained you, Gerald?’

‘Why, we’d sing a duet together.’

‘Wait till there’s a warrant!’