|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 59
But--she had misgivings. Suppose he hung about her so that she
was driven from her lovely top garden; suppose the light in Mrs.
Wilkins's funny, flickering face was blown out. Scrap felt she would
particularly dislike this to happen to Mrs. Wilkins's face, yet she had
never in her life met any wives, not any at all, who had been able to
understand that she didn't in the least want their husbands. Often she
had met wives who didn't want their husbands either, but that made them
none the less indignant if they thought somebody else did, and none the
less sure, when they saw them hanging round Scrap, that she was trying
to get them. Trying to get them! The bare thought, the bare
recollection of these situations, filled her with a boredom so extreme
that it instantly sent her to sleep again.
When she woke up she went on with Mr. Wilkins.
Now if, thought Scrap, Mr. Wilkins were not an exception and
behaved in the usual way, would Mrs. Wilkins understand, or would it
just simply spoil her holiday? She seemed quick, but would she be
quick about just this? She seemed to understand and see inside one,
but would she understand and see inside one when it came to Mr.
Wilkins?
The experienced Scrap was full of doubts. She shifted her feet
on the parapet; she jerked a cushion straight. Perhaps she had better
try and explain to Mrs. Wilkins, during the days still remaining before
the arrival--explain in a general way, rather vague and talking at
large--her attitude towards such things. She might also expound to her
her peculiar dislike of people's husbands, and her profound craving to
be, at least for this one month, let alone.
But Scrap had her doubts about this too. Such talk meant a
certain familiarity, meant embarking on a friendship with Mrs. Wilkins;
and if, after having embarked on it and faced the peril it contained of
too much Mrs. Wilkins, Mr. Wilkins should turn out to be artful--and
people did get very artful when they were set on anything--and manage
after all to slip through into the top garden, Mrs. Wilkins might
easily believe she had been taken in, and that she, Scrap, was
deceitful. Deceitful! And about Mr. Wilkins. Wives were really
pathetic.
At half-past four she heard sounds of saucers on the other side
of the daphne bushes. Was tea being sent out to her?
No; the sounds came no closer, they stopped near the house. Tea
was to be in the garden, in her garden. Scrap considered she might at
least have been asked if she minded being disturbed. They all knew she
sat there.
Perhaps some one would bring hers to her in her corner.
No; nobody brought anything.
Well, she was too hungry not to go and have it with the others
to-day, but she would give Francesca strict orders for the future.
She got up, and walked with that slow grace which was another of
her outrageous number of attractions towards the sounds of tea. She
was conscious not only of being very hungry but of wanting to talk to
Mrs. Wilkins again. Mrs. Wilkins had not grabbed, she had left her
quite free all day in spite of the rapprochement the night before. Of
course she was an original, and put on a silk jumper for dinner, but
she hadn't grabbed. This was a great thing. Scrap went towards the
tea-table quite looking forward to Mrs. Wilkins; and when she came in
sight of it she saw only Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Arbuthnot.
Mrs. Fisher was pouring out the tea, and Mrs. Arbuthnot was
offering Mrs. Fisher macaroons. Every time Mrs. Fisher offered Mrs.
Arbuthnot anything--her cup, or milk, or sugar--Mrs. Arbuthnot offered
her macaroons--pressed them on her with an odd assiduousness, almost
with obstinacy. Was it a game? Scrap wondered, sitting down and
seizing a macaroon.
"Where is Mrs. Wilkins?" asked Scrap.
They did not know. At least, Mrs. Arbuthnot, on Scrap's inquiry,
did not know; Mrs. Fisher's face, at the name, became elaborately
uninterested.
It appeared that Mrs. Wilkins had not been seen since breakfast.
Mrs. Arbuthnot thought she had probably gone for a picnic. Scrap
missed her. She ate the enormous macaroons, the best and biggest she
had ever come across, in silence. Tea without Mrs. Wilkins was dull;
and Mrs. Arbuthnot had that fatal flavour of motherliness about her, of
wanting to pet one, to make one very comfortable, coaxing one to eat--
coaxing her, who was already so frankly, so even excessively, eating--
that seemed to have dogged Scrap's steps through life. Couldn't people
leave one alone? She was perfectly able to eat what she wanted
unincited. She tried to quench Mrs. Arbuthnot's zeal by being short
with her. Useless. The shortness was not apparent. It remained, as
all Scrap's evil feelings remained, covered up by the impenetrable veil
of her loveliness.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|