Claire doesn't want to dance yet. She wants to look. All these smart people dancing the Boston. And the others not smart at all. The smiles of the women.
“I do like rhythm,” Claire says.
“Talking nonsense.”
“Bad style…”
“They respect nothing…”
“Look how she's clutching him.”
“That woman's worse.”
A feeble laugh from somewhere behind me. Walter's tie is white and his face is pale. Edward's cheeks are pink. Claire has shadows in the hollows of her cheekbones.
The music goes on, the dancing. What will things be like in six months? If only I could tell. I think Claire looks tired. Her eyes look bleak.
“That's just when I don't like them.”
“It's a bit of a pose, isn't it?”
“I could sit and watch people all day long.”
“It's not day, it's evening.”
“Edward, don't be a bore. Why can't you be as charming as Walter?”
“There's something to be said for that.”
“Look at that one.”
“Substantial.”
“She's enormous. Don't you think so, Julie? Don't you think that woman is enormous?”
Yes, the woman is enormous, a regal woman with voluptuous curves. A brocade gown and jewels at her throat. She dances with a man with a drooping moustache. One imagines them afterward in a bedroom in Belgravia. He tells her to open her legs properly. She has laughter in her eyes. Her fingers hold his root. She opens her white thighs to his gaze. He approves. A bubble of saliva forms at his lips. She holds the pose. She holds his affair. Then she rises. She turns with a swaying of her hips. Her eyes glitter with wickedness. She moans softly as he strokes her rump. Then her knees sag upon the bed. She kneels. She wriggles. His fingers tease her bottom-hole. He finds no rebellion. He pushes at her, he thrusts. She moans again, her tongue peeping. She moans and hangs her head as he corks her fundament.
I do like the dancing. The feet are curious, the spats and shoes with high heels, the buckles and buttons. Walter's eyes are upon my breasts again. I like his white gloves. I would have him again in a theater box. I would have his root beneath my fingers.
Another couple dances near our table. The woman laughing. I think of them together. His knob pushing at her slit. The tightness of her sex. His mouth twitching as he takes her. The rhythmic movement. Their feet sliding as they dance.
We dance at last. I dance with Walter. He gazes at my bosom. My shoulders are bare. His hair gleams under the light of the chandeliers. His hand presses against my back. Does he want me? His face is so vague. He says he thinks of me. He says I dispel his loneliness.
Is he truly lonely? He ought to have nothing to do with me. His tone is so earnest. He has no understanding of selfishness. I think that's his greatest fault. He smiles constantly. “I'm very fond of you, Julie.” I think of his root. How shocked he was in that theater box. How easily devastated he is. I should like to expose him here. His masculine part dangling as we dance. He talks of dinner tomorrow. I don't want to promise anything. All these people around us. What does he think about? I gaze at his eyes, but I can never understand what he thinks. We glide past a group of women cackling at each other with their noses raised. Walter does dance decently. He has dreamy eyes as he follows the music. He wants romance. His lips are finely made. His mouth has a certain softness. Does he want the truth? No, he does not want the truth. He wants a life of fine sentiments.
When I dance with Edward, the mood is something else. We are here in peculiar circumstances. Claire now dances with Walter. I am in Edward's arms while my sister glides with the man who is my suitor. Edward and I glide with our secret. Our scandal. His face beams. One would think his features suffused with spiritual expression. He seems so happy to have me in his arms again. Perhaps he's not used to it. His eyes devour me. “I've been thinking of you all evening.”
“Indecent thoughts, I suppose.”
“I should think so. I want to make love to you.”
“Darling, not here.”
“When?”
“I don't know when. I don't think we ought to.”
“You can't mean that.”
“But suppose I do.”
“I won't have it.”
The situation is evidently completely hopeless. We must compromise. We are under Claire's gaze. She smiles at me as we pass. I soothe Edward. At intervals I press against him. His mouth is wet. He whispers at me. He says he's grateful to have me in his arms again. He says he wants to kiss me. He whispers at me that he will put his lips everywhere. His passion is so fierce. I want to touch his root. I want to hold his balls. I want to feel his urgency. I want to feel his quivering.
“He does it constantly,” Claire says.
“Does what constantly?”
She frowns. “Oh, you haven't been listening again.”
Tea in the drawing room an hour after lunch. “Please tell me.”
“I said Edward is always after the maids. Now it's the new one.”
“But we do the same.”
“That's quite different.”
“I don't see how.”
“And John?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I don't like it when Edward does it.”
“Darling, you can't be jealous of a maid.”
“It's not jealousy. I don't know what it is, but it's not jealousy. Edward is so incorrigible. I wish he were more like Walter Bramsby.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“I think he adores you.”
“Who does?”
“Walter, of course.”
“Don't be silly.”
“I can tell by the way he looks at you. I can always tell by the eyes.”
“He's a puppy.”
“But sweet.”
“Yes, that too.”
“Will you marry him?”
“I don't think so.”
“You do look lovely together. You look made for each other. Do you think Edward and I look made for each other?”
“Yes, I've always thought that.”
“Walter does love you.”
“Oh, hardly at all. Or only in the smallest degree.”
“I do want you to be happy. You know that, don't you? I do want you to be happy.”
“I'm not unhappy now.”
“I think you need a husband. Every woman needs a husband.”
“That's too conventional.”
She laughs. “Yes, I suppose it is. You were always the unconventional one, weren't you?”
“I did marry John.”
“And you won't marry again?”
“I don't know.”
Selby comes in. The new maid. Edward often talks to me about her. He says she has an exquisite bottom. He says her rose-hole is exquisitely tight.
Claire has a birthday party. The house is filled with guests. Claire beams with the pleasure of it. People are so easily pleased. I don't like society. I find these people hopeless and stupid. I hate the chatter. The long hours of a dull party to celebrate my sister's birthday. How tedious it is. The doings in the smoking room. The pretensions of the overdressed women as they snicker at some latest amusement. The pompous conversations of the men as they estimate each other's income. Claire has provided a sequence of juvenile entertainments for the guests. She loves her deevy parties. She is so charming. I mustn't sneer because she is so charming. I mustn't be malicious towards my own sister. It's not pleasant. One wants to be pleasant. One wants a perfect existence. One wants all the qualities of a heavenly life. These pink and blonde English faces. Not a puzzled face in the mob. They want to have their fun. The eyes glitter, the cheeks glitter, the jewels glitter. I am too stupid to like it. The only thing important here is to have thirty thousand a year and a fresh crop of servant girls at Christmas. One must always be with the right people. One must be with people well suited to one's inclinations. I do think of the future but I see nothing. Am I unwilling? I have images of myself and Edward upon my bed. And images of Claire and Edward upon her bed. I feel an immense jealousy. Claire is jealous of the maids and I am jealous of Claire. Her gown is exquisite. Her eyes are lovely. Her complexion is perfect. She seems ravishing this evening. She floats like a bird. For whose benefit? For Edward's? I don't know. I don't know what she thinks. She always possesses someone. All the years of her life there was someone to be possessed. Every morning I am alone. I live in the world, but the world goes on without me. I watch them at night. Not always. He visits her room less often these days. On occasion she groans. One has the aspect of many things. My evenings with Ellen Terry. My turmoil afterward. The feeling of complete devastation. I ought to lose myself here in entertaining conversation. I ought to be coquettish. Walter Bramsby is in the house somewhere. Instead I think of the grate, I think of Claire and Edward laughing on her bed. You're grumbling, darling. You make the most awful connections. Now Claire takes me away to meet someone. Another unfamiliar face. A thin-lipped gentleman from Oxford murmuring that he once knew John. Sometimes I do miss John. If John were here, I should not have to talk to these people. Or is my impression a result of bitterness? The men are drinking too much. In a minute they'll be kissing the maids. How awful it is to be in a room filled with people when all the people are totally blind. Does Edward have other women besides the maids? Does he have a mistress in Portobello Road? Claire's face is so radiant. Is she mocking me? Is Claire mocking me?