Read Online To the North by Elizabeth Bowen - Free Book Online Page B

accompli and had prepared the way for his dining at Oudenarde Road with a good deal of apprehension. True to her resolution to take fewer taxis, she had been seeing her friends at home; hence her orbit and Emmeline’s touched more often. Cecilia had long fixed Emmeline in an idea of her own as fastidious and mildly difficult and, though hurt if she deprecated the close friend of the moment, found Emmeline’s distaste for most of her circle— or a distaste she liked to attribute to Emmeline—rather tonic and bracing: Cecilia did not think much of most people herself. Emmeline’s standpoint was one of Cecilia’s few landmarks.
    When, some days after their journey, Markie had rung up and invited himself to see her, Cecilia, not wishing to meet him on these terms, had countered at once by an invitation to dinner, which she as soon regretted. “He is clever, of course,” she had said to Emmeline, “and hard-headed …” but she felt discouraged and thought of going to bed with a temperature. All the same, she had begged Emmeline to be there. She did not feel Markie would mix at all well with most of her friends, and would rather face, afterwards, Emmeline’s coolness than their polite reserve. She invited, to make up a fourth, a young friend just down from Cambridge who should be too much flattered at being present at all to be critical of his company.
    Markie came and—at least in the general view—conquered. Turning rapidly to and fro between Cecilia and Emmeline— having almost no neck he veered bodily from the waist, which gave one an alarming sense of his full attention—or traversing round the table his rapid fire of talk, he dominated the party. His wit was incisive, spectacular, mordant: the young man from Cambridge,  é bloui , hardly glanced at Cecilia. … It was one of those one-man evenings which, though successful, leave one rather depressed. Cecilia, yawning when they had gone, kicked off her gold shoes before the fire.
    “Markie,” she said, “is fatter than I remembered. And poor little Evan was quite dumb.”
    “He’s more thick than fat,” said Emmeline, accurate. “And Evan was listening.”
    “He must learn not to listen like that—like a fish. I’d forgotten he was so young. Markie talks like all young men of Evan’s age long to talk, but that’s no reason why he should be encouraged.”
    “Still, I think they enjoyed themselves.”
    “I’ve no doubt they did,” said Cecilia. “But did we? That is the question.”
    “I like Markie,” said Emmeline, leaning her cheek on the side of the mantelpiece. “I think he’s so funny.”
    “You wouldn’t care for him really; he isn’t at all your sort of person.” Having disposed of this, Cecilia shook out the sofa cushions that Markie had sat on and lay down among them herself. “But then,” she continued, crossing her ankles, “whom does one really like? That’s what I keep asking myself. Here we go ruining ourselves asking people to dinner. I shall begin going out again, Emmeline; I don’t think taxis are really much more expensive and it’s easier to get away from people. Here I am, worn out listening to Markie; it’s like watching something catch too many flies on its tongue. And I shall have more of it, I’m lunching with him on Thursday.”
    “Are you?” said Emmeline, who was lunching with him on Saturday.
    Cecilia’s lunch with Markie had not been a success; he was so rude she felt he could only have asked her out of politeness: she felt pale and gloomy. When they parted: “Well,” he said briskly, “this has been delightful.” She could not agree with him. To make matters worse, they had run into Lady Waters. 58
    … However, Cecilia’s dividends were coming in, her new clothes had arrived; she was having a very gay time and all possible interest in Markie soon dwindled away. She only regretted having spoken of him to Lady Waters, who never forgot, with whom the subjects of former confidences remained