Unnecessary.
‘… and there were his fares and lunches and hair tonics …’
‘Hair tonics?’ exclaimed Mr Wither. Were all his children insane on the subject of hair? Tina was always complaining about her hair and wanting to spend money on it, and now Theodore had apparently spent about four pounds a week on his.
‘Well, lotions, you know, and Rowland’s Macassar Oil and things. His hair was …’
She stopped. Sometimes she was schoolgirlishly loyal to her husband’s memory, and such a scruple had overcome her now. It made her feel very sorry to remember that poor Teddy had worried about going bald (though she used to laugh about it with Shirley) and she did not see why his horrid old father should know everything. She was quite serious now; and did not feel like laughing any more.
‘And then there were clothes,’ she continued faintly. ‘He liked to look smart, you know. And – and of course he had to. For Business.’
Mr Wither snorted. He knew all about that particular business.
‘And lots of other things …’ she ended hastily.
Mr Wither nodded glumly, staring at her with his knees a little apart and his short red hands, darkly veined, spread over their caps. She looked quickly down at her shoes.
‘And so you haven’t anything,’ said Mr Wither at length, still glumly staring.
She shook her head.
He continued to gaze at her for a little while longer, shaking his head with compressed lips; then he bent forward abruptly and stood up.
‘Well, we shall have to see, that’s all,’ he observed.
With which comforting remark he opened the door for her, and she escaped.
When she had run quickly upstairs, he returned to the arm-chair and to his thoughts. They were not cheerful.
She had no money, she ate a great deal of butter, she was only twenty-one, and she had come, at his express and urgent request, to reside at The Eagles for life.
Viola ran all the way up to her bedroom, and flomped face downwards on the bed. She lay for a little while staring vacantly at the carpet and slowly clacking her shoes together while she waved her legs in the air. Then she got desperately up, put on her coat, and ran very quietly downstairs again.
She slipped out through the back way by the garage (late stables). She liked this side of the house, which was directly under her bedroom window, because there was always more going on there than elsewhere at The Eagles. The maids did not make much noise, but there was often a comforting smell of cooking, and sometimes Saxon was there, doing things to the car. Viola considered Saxon to be very stuck-up and too handsome for a boy, but she could not help being pleased every time she saw him because he was the only other person at The Eagles who had no wrinkles. His presence made her feel less lost in a sea of ancients.
He was there this afternoon, standing with his legs a little apart in shiny black gaiters, and a pair of very white shirt-sleeves rolled up over his arms while he polished the car. The brilliant sunlight of April, that made most faces look old, only increased the youth of his.
He saw her coming through the window of the car, and gave her such a gay, mischievous, impudent smile that she could not believe her eyes. Well! what’s up with him this afternoon, she thought, her spirits soaring at the friendliness of it: but when she came round the car, and went past him, he was as correct as though the smile had never been.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said shyly, slowing her pace a very little. She had not quite the courage to call him Saxon.
‘Good afternoon, Madam,’ responded he, respectfully.
‘Isn’t it a lovely day!’ she observed, more faintly, almost over her shoulder as she left the yard.
‘Yes, Madam, beautiful.’ He gave her a direct, respectful look but did not smile.
Feeling snubbed, and cross with him, she stuck her hands into her pockets and set out along the road beside the little wood.
He doesn’t half think no small beer of
‘… and there were his fares and lunches and hair tonics …’
‘Hair tonics?’ exclaimed Mr Wither. Were all his children insane on the subject of hair? Tina was always complaining about her hair and wanting to spend money on it, and now Theodore had apparently spent about four pounds a week on his.
‘Well, lotions, you know, and Rowland’s Macassar Oil and things. His hair was …’
She stopped. Sometimes she was schoolgirlishly loyal to her husband’s memory, and such a scruple had overcome her now. It made her feel very sorry to remember that poor Teddy had worried about going bald (though she used to laugh about it with Shirley) and she did not see why his horrid old father should know everything. She was quite serious now; and did not feel like laughing any more.
‘And then there were clothes,’ she continued faintly. ‘He liked to look smart, you know. And – and of course he had to. For Business.’
Mr Wither snorted. He knew all about that particular business.
‘And lots of other things …’ she ended hastily.
Mr Wither nodded glumly, staring at her with his knees a little apart and his short red hands, darkly veined, spread over their caps. She looked quickly down at her shoes.
‘And so you haven’t anything,’ said Mr Wither at length, still glumly staring.
She shook her head.
He continued to gaze at her for a little while longer, shaking his head with compressed lips; then he bent forward abruptly and stood up.
‘Well, we shall have to see, that’s all,’ he observed.
With which comforting remark he opened the door for her, and she escaped.
When she had run quickly upstairs, he returned to the arm-chair and to his thoughts. They were not cheerful.
She had no money, she ate a great deal of butter, she was only twenty-one, and she had come, at his express and urgent request, to reside at The Eagles for life.
Viola ran all the way up to her bedroom, and flomped face downwards on the bed. She lay for a little while staring vacantly at the carpet and slowly clacking her shoes together while she waved her legs in the air. Then she got desperately up, put on her coat, and ran very quietly downstairs again.
She slipped out through the back way by the garage (late stables). She liked this side of the house, which was directly under her bedroom window, because there was always more going on there than elsewhere at The Eagles. The maids did not make much noise, but there was often a comforting smell of cooking, and sometimes Saxon was there, doing things to the car. Viola considered Saxon to be very stuck-up and too handsome for a boy, but she could not help being pleased every time she saw him because he was the only other person at The Eagles who had no wrinkles. His presence made her feel less lost in a sea of ancients.
He was there this afternoon, standing with his legs a little apart in shiny black gaiters, and a pair of very white shirt-sleeves rolled up over his arms while he polished the car. The brilliant sunlight of April, that made most faces look old, only increased the youth of his.
He saw her coming through the window of the car, and gave her such a gay, mischievous, impudent smile that she could not believe her eyes. Well! what’s up with him this afternoon, she thought, her spirits soaring at the friendliness of it: but when she came round the car, and went past him, he was as correct as though the smile had never been.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said shyly, slowing her pace a very little. She had not quite the courage to call him Saxon.
‘Good afternoon, Madam,’ responded he, respectfully.
‘Isn’t it a lovely day!’ she observed, more faintly, almost over her shoulder as she left the yard.
‘Yes, Madam, beautiful.’ He gave her a direct, respectful look but did not smile.
Feeling snubbed, and cross with him, she stuck her hands into her pockets and set out along the road beside the little wood.
He doesn’t half think no small beer of
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