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Authors: Stella Gibbons
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hadn’t taken all your young men.”
Jean looked slightly sulky. There was a pause before she answered:
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Basil didn’t like her at all.”
“Well, but you must admit she always made a dead set at them. It used to make Ronald and me feel slightly sick.”
“Well, it’s over now, so what does it matter?” Jean sighed, and began to gather up her handbag and suitcase. “I must go or I shall miss my bore-making train. It’s been lovely seeing you, darling. You always make me feel so much better. And so you think I can’t do anything about my Mr. Potter?”
“Do use your common sense, ducky. What can you do?”
“I thought perhaps I might just give him a tinkle. He might be ill or something.”
“Not he. If he really wanted to see you he’d stagger up from his dying bed. No, it’s just another of those things.”
“Mother wasn’t always so bad,” said Jean irrelevantly, arranging the surprising hat. “She gave me some advice once.”
“Now what sort of advice? Bad, I’ll bet.”
“Oh, about—attracting men.”
“She should know, of course.”
Mrs. Hardcastle had been the type of Eve-woman, at once imperious and intensely feminine, that all the virgin-huntress and the mother in Alda rose to detest. If anyone had told her that she had been afraid of Mrs. Hardcastle’s power over men, she would have contemptuously denied it; nevertheless, her dislike had been based on just that fear.
“Don’t, Alda; she is dead, after all. Oh, I didn’t take her advice. She could get away with things that other people couldn’t, of course. I just remember what she said, that’s all,” and, as if the memory were amusing, Jean smiled.
Alda asked no more questions, for she found the subject distasteful, and immediately afterwards Jean left to catch her train, having warmly kissed her friend and again assured her how delightful it had been to see her.
Alda watched her hurry past the tea-shop against a background of bright shop windows shining in the winter dusk; an ordinarily pretty young woman whose features were slightly too small, with an expensive fur coat wrapped about her nymphlike slenderness. Once she looked back to smile and wave, then she was lost to sight.
Poor old Jean, thought Alda, and poured out another cup of tea. She was to wait in The Myrtle Bough tea-shop until one of the Friends from Pagets, who had business in the town, called to take her back by car to the guest-house, where she would collect the children and catch the bus that would convey them the greater part of their way home. The dark branches and glittering decorations of a Christmas tree in the shop window were reflected in the mirror hanging above the table where she sat, and her own hatless head and irregular profile was seen there too; with chiselled upper lip and that type of nose which is perhaps the most attractive known to mankind, the Extra Short Greek with slightly wide nostrils. The curves of her mouth were full yet delicate and her eyebrows were shadowy as a child’s. Her face and lips were unpainted, and this permitted every tint and curve to attain its full natural value. It was the face of a slightly insensitive wood-nymph, with sparkling hazel eyes.
Her thoughts played complacently about her own flirtations in the days when she herself had been—as her sisters put it—“in circulation”; and she recalled the laughing but efficient kindness with which she had handled her team of admirers. Never had she felt compelled to do the telephoning or make the advances, and always it had been a problem to choose an escort from the eager group; of course, she had had to refuse a proposal now and then, but there had never been hurt feelings or broken hearts afterwards. She had been used to the society and admiration of men since her middle teens, for her father’s large house in a prosperous suburb of Ironborough had been the scene of delightful dances and parties, providing the perfect
Jean looked slightly sulky. There was a pause before she answered:
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Basil didn’t like her at all.”
“Well, but you must admit she always made a dead set at them. It used to make Ronald and me feel slightly sick.”
“Well, it’s over now, so what does it matter?” Jean sighed, and began to gather up her handbag and suitcase. “I must go or I shall miss my bore-making train. It’s been lovely seeing you, darling. You always make me feel so much better. And so you think I can’t do anything about my Mr. Potter?”
“Do use your common sense, ducky. What can you do?”
“I thought perhaps I might just give him a tinkle. He might be ill or something.”
“Not he. If he really wanted to see you he’d stagger up from his dying bed. No, it’s just another of those things.”
“Mother wasn’t always so bad,” said Jean irrelevantly, arranging the surprising hat. “She gave me some advice once.”
“Now what sort of advice? Bad, I’ll bet.”
“Oh, about—attracting men.”
“She should know, of course.”
Mrs. Hardcastle had been the type of Eve-woman, at once imperious and intensely feminine, that all the virgin-huntress and the mother in Alda rose to detest. If anyone had told her that she had been afraid of Mrs. Hardcastle’s power over men, she would have contemptuously denied it; nevertheless, her dislike had been based on just that fear.
“Don’t, Alda; she is dead, after all. Oh, I didn’t take her advice. She could get away with things that other people couldn’t, of course. I just remember what she said, that’s all,” and, as if the memory were amusing, Jean smiled.
Alda asked no more questions, for she found the subject distasteful, and immediately afterwards Jean left to catch her train, having warmly kissed her friend and again assured her how delightful it had been to see her.
Alda watched her hurry past the tea-shop against a background of bright shop windows shining in the winter dusk; an ordinarily pretty young woman whose features were slightly too small, with an expensive fur coat wrapped about her nymphlike slenderness. Once she looked back to smile and wave, then she was lost to sight.
Poor old Jean, thought Alda, and poured out another cup of tea. She was to wait in The Myrtle Bough tea-shop until one of the Friends from Pagets, who had business in the town, called to take her back by car to the guest-house, where she would collect the children and catch the bus that would convey them the greater part of their way home. The dark branches and glittering decorations of a Christmas tree in the shop window were reflected in the mirror hanging above the table where she sat, and her own hatless head and irregular profile was seen there too; with chiselled upper lip and that type of nose which is perhaps the most attractive known to mankind, the Extra Short Greek with slightly wide nostrils. The curves of her mouth were full yet delicate and her eyebrows were shadowy as a child’s. Her face and lips were unpainted, and this permitted every tint and curve to attain its full natural value. It was the face of a slightly insensitive wood-nymph, with sparkling hazel eyes.
Her thoughts played complacently about her own flirtations in the days when she herself had been—as her sisters put it—“in circulation”; and she recalled the laughing but efficient kindness with which she had handled her team of admirers. Never had she felt compelled to do the telephoning or make the advances, and always it had been a problem to choose an escort from the eager group; of course, she had had to refuse a proposal now and then, but there had never been hurt feelings or broken hearts afterwards. She had been used to the society and admiration of men since her middle teens, for her father’s large house in a prosperous suburb of Ironborough had been the scene of delightful dances and parties, providing the perfect
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