LITMIR.BIZ

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VII

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      “Oh, Margaret,” cried her aunt next morning, “such a most unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get you alone.”

      The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of the flats in the ornate block opposite had been taken furnished by the Wilcox family, “coming up, no doubt, in the hope of getting into London society.” That Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the misfortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested in the flats, that she watched their every mutation with unwearying care. In theory she despised them—they took away that old-world look—they cut off the sun—flats house a flashy type of person. But if the truth had been known, she found her visits to Wickham Place twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen, and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of years. She would stroll across and make friends with the porters, and inquire what the rents were, exclaiming for example: “What! a hundred and twenty for a basement? You’ll never get it!” And they would answer: “One can but try, madam.” The passenger lifts, the arrangement for coals (a great temptation for a dishonest porter), were all familiar matters to her, and perhaps a relief from the politico-economical-esthetic atmosphere that reigned at the Schlegels.

      Margaret received the information calmly, and did not agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen’s life.

      “Oh, but Helen isn’t a girl with no interests,” she explained. “She has plenty of other things and other people to think about. She made a false start with the Wilcoxes, and she’ll be as willing as we are to have nothing more to do with them.”

      “For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. Helen’ll HAVE to have something more to do with them, now that they’re all opposite. She may meet that Paul in the street. She cannot very well not bow.”

      “Of course she must bow. But look here; let’s do the flowers. I was going to say, the will to be interested in him has died, and what else matters? I look on that disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the killing of a nerve in Helen. It’s dead, and she’ll never be troubled with it again. The only things that matter are the things that interest one. Bowing, even calling and leaving cards, even a dinner-party—we can do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agreeable; but the other thing, the one important thing—never again. Don’t you see?”

      Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a most questionable statement—that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die.

      “I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes are bored with us. I didn’t tell you at the time—it might have made you angry, and you had enough to worry you—but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W, and apologised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She didn’t answer it.”

      “How very rude!”

      “I wonder. Or was it sensible?”

      “No, Margaret, most rude.”

      “In either case one can class it as reassuring.”

      Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter—and very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub.

      “But you will be careful, won’t you?” she exhorted.

      “Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful.”

      “And Helen must be careful, too.”

      “Careful over what?” cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin.

      “Nothing” said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness.

      “Careful over what, Aunt Juley?”

      Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. “It is only that a certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons—where the plants are in the balcony.”

      Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, “What, Helen, you don’t mind them coming, do you?” and deepened the blush to crimson.

      “Of course I don’t mind,” said Helen a little crossly. “It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there’s nothing to be grave about at all.”

      “I’m not grave,” protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn.

      “Well, you look grave; doesn’t she, Frieda?”

      “I don’t feel grave, that’s all I can say; you’re going quite on the wrong tack.”

      “No, she does not feel grave,” echoed Mrs. Munt. “I can bear witness to that. She disagrees—”

      “Hark!” interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. “I hear Bruno entering the hall.”

      For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall—in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said:

      “Did you say the Mathesons’ flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I never knew that the name of the woman who laced too tightly was Matheson.”

      “Come, Helen,” said her cousin.

      “Go, Helen,” said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same breath: “Helen cannot deceive me. She does mind.”

      “Oh, hush!” breathed Margaret. “Frieda’ll hear you, and she can be so tiresome.”

      “She minds,” persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. “I knew she’d mind—and I’m sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people! I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you that motor drive—well, you’d have reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don’t know what you are in for! They’re all bottled up against the drawing-room window. There’s Mrs. Wilcox—I’ve seen her. There’s Paul. There’s Evie, who is a minx. There’s Charles—I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?”

      “Mr. Wilcox, possibly.”

      “I knew it. And there’s Mr. Wilcox.”

      “It’s a shame to call his face copper colour,” complained Margaret. “He has a remarkably good complexion for a man of his age.”

      Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her.

      “Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there’s no need for plans.”

      “It’s as well to be prepared.”

      “No—it’s as well not to be prepared.”

      “Why?”

      “Because—”

      Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She could not explain in so many words, but she felt that those who prepare for all the emergencies

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