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Page 51
Mrs. Fisher neither answered her not looked at her; but Scrap
looked at her, and did that with her mouth which in any other mouth
would have been a fain grin. Seen from without, across the bowl of
nasturtiums, it was the most beautiful of brief and dimpled smiles.
She had a very alive sort of face, that one, thought Scrap,
observing Mrs. Wilkins with a dawn of interest. It was rather like a
field of corn swept by lights and shadows. Both she and the dark one,
Scrap noticed, had changed their clothes, but only in order to put on
silk jumpers. The same amount of trouble would have been enough to
dress them properly, reflected Scrap. Naturally they looked like
nothing on earth in the jumpers. It didn't matter what Mrs. Fisher
wore; indeed, the only thing for her, short of plumes and ermine, was
what she did wear. But these others were quite young still, and quite
attractive. They really definitely had faces. How different life
would be for them if they made the most of themselves instead of the
least. And yet--Scrap was suddenly bored, and turned away her thoughts
and absently ate toast. What did it matter? If you did make the most
of yourself, you only collected people round you who ended by wanting
to grab.
"I've had the most wonderful day," began Mrs. Wilkins, her eyes
shining.
Scrap lowered hers. "Oh," she thought, "she's going to gush."
"As though anybody were interested in her day," thought Mrs.
Fisher, lowering hers also.
In fact, whenever Mrs. Wilkins spoke Mrs. Fisher deliberately
cast down her eyes. Thus would she mark her disapproval. Besides, it
seemed the only safe thing to do with her eyes, for no one could tell
what the uncurbed creature would say next. That which she had just
said, for instance, about men--addressed too, to her--what could she
mean? Better not conjecture, thought Mrs. Fisher; and her eyes, though
cast down, yet saw Lady Caroline stretch out her hand to the Chianti
flask and fill her glass again.
Again. She had done it once already, and the fish was only just
going out of the room. Mrs. Fisher could see that the other respectable
member of the party, Mrs. Arbuthnot, was noticing it too. Mrs.
Arbuthnot was, she hoped and believed, respectable and well-meaning.
It is true she also had invaded her sitting-room, but no doubt she
had been dragged there by the other one, and Mrs. Fisher had little if
anything against Mrs. Arbuthnot, and observed with approval that she
only drank water. That was as it should be. So, indeed, to give her
her dues, did the freckled one; and very right at their age. She
herself drank wine, but with what moderation: one meal, one glass.
And she was sixty-five, and might properly, and even beneficially, have
had a least two.
"That," she said to Lady Caroline, cutting right across what Mrs.
Wilkins was telling them about her wonderful day and indicating the
wine-glass, "is very bad for you."
Lady Caroline, however, could not have heard, for she continued
to sip, her elbow on the table, and listen to what Mrs. Wilkins was
saying.
And what was it she was saying? She had invited somebody to come
and stay? A man?
Mrs. Fisher could not credit her ears. Yet it evidently was a
man, for she spoke of the person as he.
Suddenly and for the first time--but then this was most
important--Mrs. Fisher addressed Mrs. Wilkins directly. She was
sixty-five, and cared very little what sorts of women she happened to
be with for a month, but if the women were to be mixed with men it was
a different proposition altogether. She was not going to be made a
cat's-paw of. She had not come out there to sanction by her presence
what used in her day to be called fast behaviour. Nothing had been
said at the interview in London about men; if there had been she would
have declined, of course to come.
"What is his name?" asked Mrs. Fisher, abruptly interposing.
Mrs. Wilkins turned to her with a slight surprise. "Wilkins,"
she said.
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