Read Online The Flowering Thorn by Margery Sharp - Free Book Online

cottage.…
    â€œDamn,” said Lesley; and ringing for Mrs. Lee (she had been very well tipped indeed) ordered lunch at home.
    The period of waiting, however, was unexpectedly diversified, if not exactly shortened, by the arrival of a visitor. Shortly before three there was a knock at the door, a step in the hall: it was Mrs. Bassington in person, come all the way from Cheam to advance her crucial argument.
    â€œBut, my dear Lesley, supposing you ever want to marry? You can’t have considered the extreme awkwardness—the impossibility—of such a situation. No man would stand for it.”
    Lesley raised her eyebrows.
    â€œMy dear Aunt! I thought we’d gone into that once and for all about seven years ago?”
    It was quite true. Like many another wise virgin of her generation, she had early advertised a disinclination for marriage. The dangers of such a line, however, being only too obvious, she had chosen her attitude with particular care: there was nothing aggressive, nothing embittered about it: far from liking no one man well enough, it was the commonly accepted interpretation that Lesley Frewen liked too many men too well. But the root principle was there nevertheless, and properly understood should have saved Mrs. Bassington a good deal of anxiety.…
    Not unpricked by annoyance, Lesley got up and looked out of the window: Aunt Alice’s remarks were probably everything that a young girl should have heard in 1860, but their application to herself showed a certain lack of faith.
    â€œI’m expecting a car,” she explained untruthfully, “to run us down to the cottage. Do stay and see it, Aunt Alice, it’s the second longest in London.”
    Mrs. Bassington rose. She did it rather effectively, ruffling out her feathers like a turkey in a story-book: and her voice too was like a turkey’s—not quite so dignified as the rest of the picture.
    â€œIf it wasn’t for your poor dead mother,” she said, “I should never speak to you again. But I’m your only living relative, my dear, and I know my duty if you don’t.”
    â€œI’m sure you do,” agreed Lesley politely. “You’d like me to continue to come to you, I suppose, whenever I’m in trouble?”
    The feathers quivered.
    â€œI was going to say, my dear, that as soon as you come to your senses again I shall be perfectly willing to see you at Cheam. But that,” said Aunt Alice finishing bitingly, “is perhaps looking too far ahead.”
    When she had gone Lesley went upstairs, turned on a hot bath, and lay there for an hour. The perfection of the appointments, however, started a series of unfortunate comparisons, and the treatment soothed her less than usually. She then had her tea, and immediately afterwards assembled Pat, the luggage and the basket of provisions, and placed them all in readiness in a room off the hall. The result was a modern genre picture—The Last Day in the New Home—of considerable authenticity: only two boxes, and only one child. Lesley looked at him curiously: on being told that he was now to live in the country he had displayed no more emotion than on being told that he was now to go for a walk: on the actual point of departure, he was displaying even less. Well, it was a comfort in a way; and settling herself in the window Lesley took up and opened the first of her Mudie’s books.
    It was fortunately quite interesting, for the car was a good deal late.
    It arrived, in fact, at exactly twenty-five past seven, when Pat had just been given his supper; but as Elissa was naturally in haste to be off, Lesley sent it away again and bundled him into his coat. The injustice, however, scarcely saved time, for he at once went into the lavatory and remained there interminably. Mrs. Lee had given him a banana, and he was eating it to make sure.
    â€œDarling, if you call that house-trained, I don’t,” said Elissa crossly.