think he’s bumptious, Emmeline?”
“My dear, it was Emmeline who just said so.”
“Then I dare say Emmeline is quite right.”
“But I like him,” said Emmeline.
“If we are disturbing you, Robert,” said Lady Waters, “we had better go into the garden.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Sir Robert, and put up The Times again quickly.
Emmeline, who had been eating a lump of sugar, said thoughtfully: “I don’t think bumptious is really the word.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt he is clever. But I did not like his expression; there was something about his eye that I did not like; it reminded me of a basilisk.”
It was beneath Emmeline to ask Lady Waters where she had seen a basilisk. She said: “He’s not at all sorry for himself,” selecting the very quality that had not commended him to Georgina.
“Why should he be sorry? I’ve no doubt he has a very nice time. Cecilia seems very much taken up with him.”
Emmeline, who had a transparent skin, turned faintly pink as she said: “I don’t think they meet much.”
“Nonsense,” said Lady Waters. Her look drank in the blush; she was accustomed to find Emmeline quite impassible. “Evidently,” she said, “you agree with me.”
“I don’t quite know what we are talking about,” said Emmeline with extreme gentleness. She looked out wistfully at the garden. She had not come down all this way into Gloucestershire, in the middle of what she and Peter considered the Whitsun rush, to sit indoors discussing attractions as though they were at Rutland Gate. She had no doubt that Cecilia had already told her aunt all about Markie, far more than she knew. Emmeline, longing to play tennis before dinner, rather sadly selected one more lump of sugar and crunched it up.
“All that sugar cannot be good for you, Emmeline— All I can say is, I hope this will not come to much.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
“You are very young, Emmeline.”
“You don’t think the others might like to play tennis?”
“I don’t think they are much in the mood,” said their hostess darkly.
“You don’t think it might cheer them up?”
“I’ll take you on, Emmeline,” said Sir Robert joyfully.
“Don’t get hot,” said his wife, as the pair stepped out through the window. Sir Robert did get very hot; in his braces he was soon rushing about the court. He played, however, a stonewall game and beat Emmeline, who was erratic. Gerda Bligh soon appeared in an arch of the beech hedge, mournfully, like Cassandra, while Tim Farquharson, attracted by the sound of the balls, put down his pen and came to hang round the court. He was a little afraid of Emmeline, who had been his ex-fiancée’s friend; for her part she found him a harmless young man, though inferior.
“I’ve written eight letters,” he could not help saying to Gerda Bligh when the sett was over.
“They won’t go till Monday now,” said Sir Robert cheerfully. “You should have given them to the postman.”
“But nobody told me.”
“Yes, that’s too bad; you should have given them to the postman.”
“ Does an afternoon post come in?” said Emmeline suddenly. Her white sweater slung round her shoulders, absently knotting the sleeves round her neck, she turned to look at Sir Robert as though he had said something she did not quite know how to take. Her hair blown back, she had for a moment a curious distant look, not like a woman’s.
“Naturally,” said Sir Robert, who from the moment he had not too willingly hung up at Farraways his own quite honourable hat, had accepted everything here in its fixed order.
Emmeline getting up, left them; she walked rather slowly away from the white seat in front of the beech hedge, as though she might never return. Did she expect a letter? Perhaps even she hardly knew what drew her indoors, or set her feeling her way through the dark hall to the table where posts lay. By the gong, she found Markie’s letter: square, blue and compact— and at
“My dear, it was Emmeline who just said so.”
“Then I dare say Emmeline is quite right.”
“But I like him,” said Emmeline.
“If we are disturbing you, Robert,” said Lady Waters, “we had better go into the garden.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Sir Robert, and put up The Times again quickly.
Emmeline, who had been eating a lump of sugar, said thoughtfully: “I don’t think bumptious is really the word.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt he is clever. But I did not like his expression; there was something about his eye that I did not like; it reminded me of a basilisk.”
It was beneath Emmeline to ask Lady Waters where she had seen a basilisk. She said: “He’s not at all sorry for himself,” selecting the very quality that had not commended him to Georgina.
“Why should he be sorry? I’ve no doubt he has a very nice time. Cecilia seems very much taken up with him.”
Emmeline, who had a transparent skin, turned faintly pink as she said: “I don’t think they meet much.”
“Nonsense,” said Lady Waters. Her look drank in the blush; she was accustomed to find Emmeline quite impassible. “Evidently,” she said, “you agree with me.”
“I don’t quite know what we are talking about,” said Emmeline with extreme gentleness. She looked out wistfully at the garden. She had not come down all this way into Gloucestershire, in the middle of what she and Peter considered the Whitsun rush, to sit indoors discussing attractions as though they were at Rutland Gate. She had no doubt that Cecilia had already told her aunt all about Markie, far more than she knew. Emmeline, longing to play tennis before dinner, rather sadly selected one more lump of sugar and crunched it up.
“All that sugar cannot be good for you, Emmeline— All I can say is, I hope this will not come to much.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
“You are very young, Emmeline.”
“You don’t think the others might like to play tennis?”
“I don’t think they are much in the mood,” said their hostess darkly.
“You don’t think it might cheer them up?”
“I’ll take you on, Emmeline,” said Sir Robert joyfully.
“Don’t get hot,” said his wife, as the pair stepped out through the window. Sir Robert did get very hot; in his braces he was soon rushing about the court. He played, however, a stonewall game and beat Emmeline, who was erratic. Gerda Bligh soon appeared in an arch of the beech hedge, mournfully, like Cassandra, while Tim Farquharson, attracted by the sound of the balls, put down his pen and came to hang round the court. He was a little afraid of Emmeline, who had been his ex-fiancée’s friend; for her part she found him a harmless young man, though inferior.
“I’ve written eight letters,” he could not help saying to Gerda Bligh when the sett was over.
“They won’t go till Monday now,” said Sir Robert cheerfully. “You should have given them to the postman.”
“But nobody told me.”
“Yes, that’s too bad; you should have given them to the postman.”
“ Does an afternoon post come in?” said Emmeline suddenly. Her white sweater slung round her shoulders, absently knotting the sleeves round her neck, she turned to look at Sir Robert as though he had said something she did not quite know how to take. Her hair blown back, she had for a moment a curious distant look, not like a woman’s.
“Naturally,” said Sir Robert, who from the moment he had not too willingly hung up at Farraways his own quite honourable hat, had accepted everything here in its fixed order.
Emmeline getting up, left them; she walked rather slowly away from the white seat in front of the beech hedge, as though she might never return. Did she expect a letter? Perhaps even she hardly knew what drew her indoors, or set her feeling her way through the dark hall to the table where posts lay. By the gong, she found Markie’s letter: square, blue and compact— and at
Similar Books
