She was deliciously conscious of her grace as she ran up the four steps to the door and fitted the key into the lock. She would say “hello,” and then dash upstairs and change—but no, there was nobody in the library, nobody at all. Perhaps they were going to have tea in the garden. Yes, it must be that. She stood still in the hall for a moment, and listened: and sure enough, she could hear Milly’s loud infantile laughter coming from the direction of the garden, and then a bumble of men’s voices. Why would Milly laugh in that disagreeable and vulgar way? And they all encouraged her in it, too—it was disgraceful. She must be spoken to about it. It was really just a desire to show off—she did it to attract attention. And Father humored her far too much. In fact, she was being spoiled.… Well, she would change first—it was perhaps better, for her hands were rather grubby. And this old suit, too—it would be much better to have on her green silk, and the cream-colored stockings, and the morocco slippers. And of course the scarlet sash.… She flung the papers on her bed, and then her coat and skirt, and kicked off her slippers. The voices came with startling clearness from the garden—and also other voices from farther away, perhaps from the Leightons’ garden. And—yes—there was Mr. Waite’s nice deep murmur, and Father laughing in that funny half-silent way he had. Should she go to the window and take a peek? No—they might see her, and that would be dreadful. How lovely! What a luxury! To have such a charming and distinguished visitor, and already to hear him talking in the garden, and to eavesdrop in this delicious and secret way! To share in his presence in this manner, and yet remain hidden! It was like having some precious thing that no one knew about. She poured water from the jug into the basin, and dashed it against her cheeks and eyes: and it was as if, instantaneously, a grimy cobweb of sums and declensions and syntaxes had been washed away from her soul. Exquisite relief! To feel like a muddied daffodil washed clean by the rain! Could anything, anything, be nicer? Her face still dripping, she snatched the towel and gave her cheeks a hard rub, to bring up the color, and then dashed to the chest of drawers and took out her lovely cream-colored silk stockings. How refined and ladylike they felt, after these woolen things! How much lighter she was, and how much nimbler! And now the green silk frock, with its broad scarlet sash: she dropped it over her shoulders, shook her head free, and began smiling as she looped the four little braid frogs. To go into this, after that wretched old suit, was like coming out of a chrysalis.
She ran down the stairs, and then, as she approached the door that gave on to the garden, slowed her steps and became suddenly sedate. She must be dignified—to let him see at once that she had grown up—but not too dignified: one arm dropped at her side, and the other hand caught, idly, in the broad loop of her sash. Then perhaps she would raise one hand to shade her eyes.… Unfortunately, as she stepped out into the garden she saw that her carefully prepared entrance had not been perceived. Father and Mr. Waite had their backs turned, Mother was in the act of pouring a cup of tea, and Milly was leaning against Mr. Waite’s shoulder, apparently looking at something on his knee. A book. Well! No matter—she would just go up to them quietly. Quietly and gently, as suited her nature.
“Just in time,” said Mother. “Mary dear, would you mind getting some more hot water?… But first you can say how-do-you-do to Mr. Waite.”
How infuriating! As if she were a little girl in a pinafore! She felt herself flushing; and surprisingly enough, as Mr. Waite turned his head, and half made as if to rise, but didn’t succeed, she directed a part of her annoyance at him; and instead of shaking hands with him, as she had thought to do, gave him rather a stiff little nod. Well! If that was the way things were going to be! If they were going to be so casual and distant about it, she could be casual and distant herself. Certainly. Why not? She would let them see that she was no longer a baby like Milly. Good heavens! She took the hot-water jug from the wicker teatable; nonchalantly and disdainfully; tilted up the metal lid, as if to make quite sure that it was, as reported, empty; and sauntered back to the house, swinging it at her side. Damn. If only Milly hadn’t been snuggling against him like that, pretending to take an interest in that accursed book—and it was notorious that at ordinary times she never could be got to look at a book—or if the chairs had all been faced the other way—how damnable that destiny had such a way of hanging by trivial and disgusting trifles like that! It was really too monstrous.… She filled the jug from the kettle, and banged the kettle back on the gas ring, resentfully. She would take her time. Why should she put herself out for people who paid no attention to her? There was no reason at alclass="underline" none whatever. She peered into the cracked mirror that balanced on the pipes over the kitchen sink, and then glanced out through the window. The book had been put aside; and Mr. Waite, uncrossing his brown tweed knees, was leaning forward to take a slice of bread-and-butter. Father, clasping his hands behind his head, was looking up at the sky and laughing. They had already forgotten about her completely. Just as if she had never been.…
“Of course Milly does!”
“Of course Milly does what?” answered Mary, depositing the jug on the table, and then sinking into a deck-chair.
Mr. Waite gave her rather an odd shamefaced look—as if a little surprised. Had her tone been too sharp?
“Expect a present.… Suppose you were to look in my pockets, Milly? Eh?”
He beamed at Milly with what was—yes, really!—a fatuously benign expression. The heavy uncle. Oh these damned patronizing adoptive uncles, with their portly benefactions! Milly laughed with quite unnecessary violence and darted a hand first into the right pocket and then into the left. After this second invasion she gave a shout of delight and drew out a small white box.
“Oh!” she cried. “Chocolates!” And then, tearing at the wrapper, “and they’re hard centers! Oh, how lovely!”
She danced absurdly, waving the box in the air.
“Very nice of Mr. Waite, I’m sure,” Mary murmured, dropping a lump of sugar in her tea. “Sweets to the sweet, and all that sort of thing.”
Again too sharp. But in the flurry that attended the passing of the chocolates, perhaps it hadn’t been too much noticed.
“And how’s my friend Meg?” cried Mr. Waite with exaggerated gaiety, holding up a chocolate almond.
“Who? Meg she was a gypsy?” said Mother. “But hadn’t you heard?”
“Heard? No—has anything happened to her?”
“It was dreadful,” cooed Mother, with a smile which seemed to luxuriate in the dreadfulness. “She was found dead in Covey’s barn, by some boys, just a fortnight ago. Covered with straw. She had apparently been dead for some time. And do you know—”