Miss Royal herself had opened the door. She had, as Emily saw at once, no beauty, but unmistakable distinction, from the crown of her gold-bronze hair to the toes of her satin slippers. She was arrayed in some marvellous dress of mauve velvet and she wore pince-nez with tortoise-shell rims, the first of their kind to be seen in Shrewsbury.
Chu-Chin gave one rapturous, slobbery wipe at her face with his tongue, then rushed on into Mrs. Royal's parlour. The beautiful mauve dress was spotted from collar to hem with muddy paw-marks. Emily thought that Chu-Chin fully deserved Mrs. Royal's bad opinion and mentally remarked that if he were HER dog he should behave better. But Miss Royal did not reprove him in any way, and perhaps Emily's secret criticism was subconsciously prompted by her instant perception that Miss Royal's greeting, while perfectly courteous, was very cold. From her letter Emily had somehow expected a warmer reception.
"Won't you come in and sit down?" said Miss Royal. She ushered Emily in, waved to a comfortable chair, and sat down on a stiff and uncompromising Chippendale one. Somehow, Emily, sensitive at all times and abnormally so just now, felt that Miss Royal's selection of a chair was ominous. Why hadn't she sunk chummily into the depths of the big velvet morris? But there she sat, a stately, aloof figure, having apparently paid not the slightest attention to the appalling mud-stains on her beautiful dress. Chu-Chin had jumped on the big plush davenport, where he sat, cockily looking from one to the other as if enjoying the situation. It was all too evident that, as Mrs. Royal had foreboded, something had "upset" Miss Royal, and Emily's heart suddenly sank like lead.
"It's... a lovely day," she faltered. She knew it was an incredibly stupid thing to say, but she had to say something when Miss Royal wouldn't say anything. The silence was too awful.
"Very lovely," agreed Miss Royal, not looking at Emily at all but at Chu-Chin, who was thumping a beautiful silk and lace cushion of Mrs. Royal's with his wet tail. Emily hated Chu-Chin. It was a relief to hate him, since as yet she did not dare to hate Miss Royal. But she wished herself a thousand miles away. Oh, if she only hadn't that little bundle of manuscripts on her lap! It was so evident what it was. She would never dare to show one of them to Miss Royal. Was this outraged empress the writer of that kind, friendly letter? It was impossible to believe it. This must be a nightmare. Her dream was "out" with a vengeance. She felt crude and bread-and-buttery and ignorant and dowdy... and young! Oh, so horribly young!
The moments passed... not so very many, perhaps, but seeming like hours to Emily. Her mouth was dry and parched, her brain paralysed. She couldn't think of a solitary thing to say. A horrible suspicion flashed across her mind that, since writing her letter, Miss Royal had heard the gossip about the night in the old John house and that her altered attitude was the result.
In her misery Emily squirmed in her chair and her little packet of manuscripts slipped to the floor. Emily stooped to retrieve it. At the same moment Chu-Chin made a flying leap from the davenport at it. His muddy paws caught the spray of violets hanging from Emily's hat and tore it loose. Emily let go of her packet and clutched her hat. Chu-Chin let go of the violets and pounced on the packet. Then, holding that in his mouth, he bolted out of the open glass door leading to the garden.
"Oh, what a relief it would be to tear my hair," thought Emily violently.
That diabolical chow had carried off her latest and best story and a number of choice poems. Heaven knew what he would do with them. She supposed she would never see them again. But, at least, there was fortunately now no question of showing them to Miss Royal.
Emily no longer cared whether Miss Royal was in a bad humour or not. She was no longer desirous of pleasing her... a woman who would let her dog behave like that to an invited guest and never reprove him! Nay, she even seemed to be amused at his antics. Emily was sure she had detected a fleeting smile on Miss Royal's arrogant face as she looked at the ruined violets scattered over the floor.
There suddenly popped into Emily's mind a story she had heard of Lofty John's father, who was in the habit of telling his wife,
"When people do be after snubbing you, Bridget, pull up your lip, Bridget, pull up your lip."
Emily pulled up her lip.
"A very playful dog," she said sarcastically.
"Very," agreed Miss Royal composedly.
"Don't you think a little discipline would improve him?" asked Emily.
"No, I do not think so," said Miss Royal meditatively.
Chu-Chin returned at this moment, capered about the room, knocked a small glass vase off a taboret with a whisk of his tail, sniffed at the ensuing fragments, then bounded up on the davenport again, where he sat panting. "Oh, what a good dog am I!"
Emily picked up her note-book and pencil.
"Mr. Towers sent me to interview you," she said.
"So I understand," said Miss Royal, never taking her eyes off her worshipped chow.
Emily: "May I trouble you to answer a few questions?"
Miss Royal, with exaggerated amiability: "Charmed."
(Chu-Chin, having saved enough breath, springs from the davenport and rushes through the half-opened folding doors of the dining- room.)
Emily, consulting note-book and recklessly asking the first question jotted down therein: "What do you think will be the result of the Presidential election this fall?"
(Emily, with compressed lips, writes down in her note-book: "She never thinks about it." Chu-Chin reappears, darts through parlour and out into the garden, carrying a roast chicken in his mouth.)
Miss Royaclass="underline" "There goes my supper."
Emily, checking off first questions: "Is there any likelihood that the United States Congress will look favourably on the recent reciprocity proposals of the Canadian Government?"
Miss Royaclass="underline" "IS the Canadian Government making reciprocity proposals? I never heard of them."
(Emily writes, "She never heard of them." Miss Royal refits her pince-nez.)
Emily, thinks: "With a chin and a nose like that you'll look very witch-like when you grow old." Says: "Is it your opinion that the historical novel has had its day?"
Miss Royal, languidly: "I always leave my opinions at home when I take a holiday."
(Emily writes, "She always leaves her opinions home when she takes a holiday," and wishes savagely she could write her own description of this interview, but knows Mr. Towers wouldn't print it. Then consoles herself by remembering that she has a virgin Jimmy-book at home and takes a wicked delight in thinking of the account that will be written in it that night. Chu-Chin enters. Emily wonders if he could have eaten the chicken in that short time. Chu-Chin, evidently feeling the need of some desert, helps himself to one of Mrs. Royal's crocheted tidies, crawls under the piano with it and falls to chewing rapturously.)
Miss Royal, fervently: "DEAR dog!"
Emily, suddenly inspired: "What do you think of chow dogs?"
Miss Royaclass="underline" "The most adorable creatures in the world."
Emily to herself: "So you've brought ONE opinion with you." To Miss Royaclass="underline" "I do not admire them."
Miss Royal, with an icy smile: "It is evident that your taste in dogs must be quite different from mine."
Emily, to herself: "I wish Ilse were here to call you names for me."
(A large, motherly grey cat passes across the doorstep outside. Chu-Chin bolts out from under the piano, shoots between the legs of a tall plant stand, and pursues the flying cat. The plant stand has gone over with a crash and Mrs. Royal's beautiful rex begonia lies in ruins on the floor, amid a heap of earth and broken pottery.)
Miss Royal, unsympathetically: "Poor Aunt Angela! Her heart will be broken."
Emily: "But that doesn't matter, does it?"