she decided, as she followed Miss Froy down the swaying restaurant-car.
She noticed that the Misses Flood-Porter, who had not finished their leisurely tea, took no notice of herself, but looked exclusively at her companion.
Miss Froy returned Miss Rose’s stare with frank interest.
“Those people are English,” she whispered to Iris, not knowing that they had met before. “They’re part of an England that is passing away. Well-bred privileged people, who live in big houses, and don’t spend their income. I’m rather sorry they’re dying out.”
“Why?” asked Iris.
“Because, although I’m a worker myself, I feel that nice leisured people stand for much that is good. Tradition, charity, national prestige. They may not think you’re their equal, but their sense of justice sees that you get equal rights.”
Iris said nothing, although she admitted to herself that, while they were at the hotel, the Misses Flood-Porter were more considerate of person and property than her own friends.
When they made their long and shaky pilgrimage through the train, she was amazed by Miss Froy’s youthful spirits. Her laugh rang out whenever she was bumped against other passengers, or was forced, by a lurch of the engine, to clutch a rail.
After they had pushed their way to a clearer passage, she lingered to peep through the windows of the reserved compartments. One of these specially arrested her attention and she invited Iris to share her view.
“Do have a peek,” she urged. “There’s a glorious couple, just like film stars come to life.”
Iris was feeling too jaded to be interested in anything but a railway collision; but as she squeezed her way past Miss Froy, she glanced mechanically through the glass and recognised the bridal pair from the hotel.
Even within the limits of the narrow coupé, the Todhunters had managed to suggest their special atmosphere of opulence and exclusion. The bride wore the kind of elaborate travelling-costume which is worn only on journeys inside a film studio, and had assembled a drift of luxurious possessions.
“Fancy,” thrilled Miss Froy, “they’ve got hot-house fruit with their tea. Grapes and nectarines. He’s looking at her with his soul in his eyes, but I can only see her profile. It’s just like a beautiful statue. Oh, lady, please turn your head.”
Her wish was granted, for, at that comment, Mrs. Todhunter chanced to glance towards the window. She frowned when she saw Miss Froy and spoke to her husband, who rose instantly and pulled down the blind.
Although she was not implicated, Iris felt ashamed of the incident; but Miss Froy only bubbled with amusement.
“He’ll know me again,” she said. “He looked at me as if he’d like to annihilate me. Quite natural. I was the World—and he wants to forget the World, because he’s in paradise. It must be wonderful to be exclusively in love.”
“They may not be married,” remarked Iris. “Any one can buy a wedding-ring.”
“You mean—guilty love? Oh, no, they’re too glorious. What name did they register under?”
“Todhunter.”
“Then they
are
married. I’m so glad. If it was an irregular affair, they would have signed ‘Brown,’ or ‘Smith.’ It’s always done.”
As she listened to the gush of words behind her, Iris was again perplexed by the discrepancy between Miss Froy’s personality and her appearance. It was as though a dryad were imprisoned within the tree-trunk of a withered spinster.
When they reached the end of the corridor, a morbid impulse made her glance towards the carriage which held the invalid. She caught a glimpse of a rigid form and a face hidden by its mass of adhesions, before she looked quickly away, to avoid the eyes of the doctor.
They frightened her, because of their suggestion of baleful hypnotic force. She knew that they would be powerless to affect her in ordinary circumstances; but she was beginning to feel heady and unreal, as though she were in a dream, where
She noticed that the Misses Flood-Porter, who had not finished their leisurely tea, took no notice of herself, but looked exclusively at her companion.
Miss Froy returned Miss Rose’s stare with frank interest.
“Those people are English,” she whispered to Iris, not knowing that they had met before. “They’re part of an England that is passing away. Well-bred privileged people, who live in big houses, and don’t spend their income. I’m rather sorry they’re dying out.”
“Why?” asked Iris.
“Because, although I’m a worker myself, I feel that nice leisured people stand for much that is good. Tradition, charity, national prestige. They may not think you’re their equal, but their sense of justice sees that you get equal rights.”
Iris said nothing, although she admitted to herself that, while they were at the hotel, the Misses Flood-Porter were more considerate of person and property than her own friends.
When they made their long and shaky pilgrimage through the train, she was amazed by Miss Froy’s youthful spirits. Her laugh rang out whenever she was bumped against other passengers, or was forced, by a lurch of the engine, to clutch a rail.
After they had pushed their way to a clearer passage, she lingered to peep through the windows of the reserved compartments. One of these specially arrested her attention and she invited Iris to share her view.
“Do have a peek,” she urged. “There’s a glorious couple, just like film stars come to life.”
Iris was feeling too jaded to be interested in anything but a railway collision; but as she squeezed her way past Miss Froy, she glanced mechanically through the glass and recognised the bridal pair from the hotel.
Even within the limits of the narrow coupé, the Todhunters had managed to suggest their special atmosphere of opulence and exclusion. The bride wore the kind of elaborate travelling-costume which is worn only on journeys inside a film studio, and had assembled a drift of luxurious possessions.
“Fancy,” thrilled Miss Froy, “they’ve got hot-house fruit with their tea. Grapes and nectarines. He’s looking at her with his soul in his eyes, but I can only see her profile. It’s just like a beautiful statue. Oh, lady, please turn your head.”
Her wish was granted, for, at that comment, Mrs. Todhunter chanced to glance towards the window. She frowned when she saw Miss Froy and spoke to her husband, who rose instantly and pulled down the blind.
Although she was not implicated, Iris felt ashamed of the incident; but Miss Froy only bubbled with amusement.
“He’ll know me again,” she said. “He looked at me as if he’d like to annihilate me. Quite natural. I was the World—and he wants to forget the World, because he’s in paradise. It must be wonderful to be exclusively in love.”
“They may not be married,” remarked Iris. “Any one can buy a wedding-ring.”
“You mean—guilty love? Oh, no, they’re too glorious. What name did they register under?”
“Todhunter.”
“Then they
are
married. I’m so glad. If it was an irregular affair, they would have signed ‘Brown,’ or ‘Smith.’ It’s always done.”
As she listened to the gush of words behind her, Iris was again perplexed by the discrepancy between Miss Froy’s personality and her appearance. It was as though a dryad were imprisoned within the tree-trunk of a withered spinster.
When they reached the end of the corridor, a morbid impulse made her glance towards the carriage which held the invalid. She caught a glimpse of a rigid form and a face hidden by its mass of adhesions, before she looked quickly away, to avoid the eyes of the doctor.
They frightened her, because of their suggestion of baleful hypnotic force. She knew that they would be powerless to affect her in ordinary circumstances; but she was beginning to feel heady and unreal, as though she were in a dream, where
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