make a woman noticeable and desirable had been done to her, but still it made no difference. The exotic perfume, the careful grooming, the paint, the hair gilded and dressed like that of a page boy in the fifteenth century—all these had been imposed upon a personality ordinary and gentle as a green leaf, and all without leading to that result for which she had longed since she was seventeen: marriage. She was now thirty-two years old, and she had never even been engaged.
“So what do you think I ought to do now?” she went on, not waiting for the answer to her first question but directing upon Alda a look of utter confidence and trust.
“You can’t do a thing,” retorted Alda firmly. “He’s let you see very plainly that he doesn’t mean business and you’ll just have to write it off.”
“Oh, do you really think so, darling? He was so sweet in the summer. I don’t see how anyone can be so sweet, and then a few months later be quite different.”
You ought to see it by now, if anyone ever did, thought Alda, looking at her with mingled affection and impatience.
“Well, people—men—can,” she said. “But I think he behaved very badly, I must say. (More tea?) Did he kiss
you?”
“(Yes, please.) Once or twice. Well—rather a lot, in fact, darling. But of course,” hastily, “I didn’t think that meant anything. I’m not quite a fool.”
“Jean, are you absolutely sure you didn’t let him see you cared about him?”
“Oh, I think so, Alda. Yes, I’m fairly sure about that. I did try hard not to. And anyway——”
She paused, and took a cigarette from a handsome case and lit it from a gold lighter. Alda, who did not smoke, watched her slim hands, unroughened by housework, manipulating the small luxurious objects while four tinkling, surprisingly unfashionable silver bracelets slid about on her wrist. Alda’s own hands were coarsened by housework and cooking in spite of her casual attempts to protect them, but during the war Jean had worked as secretary to her mother, an energetic and vital charmeuse who had run a hostel for Allied soldiers. The work had been exacting, but not rough, and Jean’s looks, such as they were, had not suffered.
“‘ And anyway ’ what?”
“ Oh—I don’t know.” Jean blew out smoke and stared down at the table while she played with a knife. She had suddenly realised how many of these sessions she had had with Alda, and the realisation had given her a little shock. They had sometimes joked about her eagerness to confide and Alda’s readiness in advising, but never before to-day had she fully taken in the fact that this same conversation (with Captain Ottley or the Farebrother boy or Michael Powers in place of Mr. Oliver Potter) had been going on for fifteen years. She had been momentarily silenced by wondering whether it would go on for another fifteen. That, possibility was enough to silence any woman.
“Oh—mother dying,” she said vaguely, feeling for some reason unable to confide these thoughts to her friend, “I couldn’t give all my attention to him—though, of course, I was crazy about him,” she added hastily.
There were times when Alda found Jean both silly and irritating. This was one of them.
“It must have been just a relief when your mother died; do be honest, Jean,” she said sharply.
“I suppose it was—in a way. But it was a shock, all the same. And poor Dad has taken it so hard.”
“Yes—how is your father? No better?” Alda had always liked Mr. Hardcastle, who was automatically at his best, like many a man before him, in the company of a pretty, lively woman whom he could not bully.
“He’s really ill, you know. He just can’t get over it.”
“It’s queer, the way he came to adore her so as they both got older. I can remember them really disliking one another, when I was a little girl about eleven.”
“She was so beautiful, Alda.”
“But such a witch, Jean! You might have been married years ago if she
“So what do you think I ought to do now?” she went on, not waiting for the answer to her first question but directing upon Alda a look of utter confidence and trust.
“You can’t do a thing,” retorted Alda firmly. “He’s let you see very plainly that he doesn’t mean business and you’ll just have to write it off.”
“Oh, do you really think so, darling? He was so sweet in the summer. I don’t see how anyone can be so sweet, and then a few months later be quite different.”
You ought to see it by now, if anyone ever did, thought Alda, looking at her with mingled affection and impatience.
“Well, people—men—can,” she said. “But I think he behaved very badly, I must say. (More tea?) Did he kiss
you?”
“(Yes, please.) Once or twice. Well—rather a lot, in fact, darling. But of course,” hastily, “I didn’t think that meant anything. I’m not quite a fool.”
“Jean, are you absolutely sure you didn’t let him see you cared about him?”
“Oh, I think so, Alda. Yes, I’m fairly sure about that. I did try hard not to. And anyway——”
She paused, and took a cigarette from a handsome case and lit it from a gold lighter. Alda, who did not smoke, watched her slim hands, unroughened by housework, manipulating the small luxurious objects while four tinkling, surprisingly unfashionable silver bracelets slid about on her wrist. Alda’s own hands were coarsened by housework and cooking in spite of her casual attempts to protect them, but during the war Jean had worked as secretary to her mother, an energetic and vital charmeuse who had run a hostel for Allied soldiers. The work had been exacting, but not rough, and Jean’s looks, such as they were, had not suffered.
“‘ And anyway ’ what?”
“ Oh—I don’t know.” Jean blew out smoke and stared down at the table while she played with a knife. She had suddenly realised how many of these sessions she had had with Alda, and the realisation had given her a little shock. They had sometimes joked about her eagerness to confide and Alda’s readiness in advising, but never before to-day had she fully taken in the fact that this same conversation (with Captain Ottley or the Farebrother boy or Michael Powers in place of Mr. Oliver Potter) had been going on for fifteen years. She had been momentarily silenced by wondering whether it would go on for another fifteen. That, possibility was enough to silence any woman.
“Oh—mother dying,” she said vaguely, feeling for some reason unable to confide these thoughts to her friend, “I couldn’t give all my attention to him—though, of course, I was crazy about him,” she added hastily.
There were times when Alda found Jean both silly and irritating. This was one of them.
“It must have been just a relief when your mother died; do be honest, Jean,” she said sharply.
“I suppose it was—in a way. But it was a shock, all the same. And poor Dad has taken it so hard.”
“Yes—how is your father? No better?” Alda had always liked Mr. Hardcastle, who was automatically at his best, like many a man before him, in the company of a pretty, lively woman whom he could not bully.
“He’s really ill, you know. He just can’t get over it.”
“It’s queer, the way he came to adore her so as they both got older. I can remember them really disliking one another, when I was a little girl about eleven.”
“She was so beautiful, Alda.”
“But such a witch, Jean! You might have been married years ago if she
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