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      ‘What, nobody in!’ they heard him exclaim.

      ‘There is Holiday,’ murmured Mr Allport resentfully.

      Vera did not answer. Holiday came to the open window, attracted by the fragrance.

      ‘Ho! that’s where you are!’ he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyed Vera’s trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress to betray herself.

      ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

      ‘Nothing in particular,’ replied Mr Allport.

      Mr Holiday sniggered.

      ‘Oh, well, if it’s nothing particular and private —’ said Mr Holiday, and with that he leaped over the window-sill and went to join them.

      ‘Curst fool!’ muttered Mr Allport. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added swiftly to Vera.

      ‘Have you ever noticed, Mr Holiday,’ asked Vera, as if very friendly, ‘how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won’t open while you’re looking.’

      ‘No,’ sniggered he, I don’t blame ’em. Why should they give themselves away any more than you do? You won’t open while you’re watched.’ He nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow.

      After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in poor spirits. Mr MacWhirter retired to read. Mr Holiday sat picking his teeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano.

      ‘Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not play now,’ she replied.

      ‘But you will begin again,’ pleaded Mr. Allport.

      ‘No, never!’ she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The family tragedy had something to do with her decision, he was sure. He watched her interestedly.

      ‘Mother used to play —’ she began.

      ‘Vera!’ said Beatrice reproachfully.

      ‘Let us have a song,’ suggested Mr. Holiday.

      ‘Mr. Holiday wishes to sing, Mother,’ said Vera, going to the music-rack.

      ‘Nay — I— it’s not me,’ Holiday began.

      ‘“The Village Blacksmith”,’ said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holiday advanced. Vera glanced at her mother.

      ‘But I have not touched the piano for — for years, I am sure,’ protested Beatrice.

      ‘You can play beautifully,’ said Vera.

      Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glared at him. Vera remained very calm.

      At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went out abruptly.

      ‘Mother has suddenly remembered that tomorrow’s jellies are not made,’ laughed Vera.

      Allport looked at her, and was sad.

      When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. She would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply.

      Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At half past ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was studying a cookery-book.

      ‘You, too, at the midnight lamp!’ exclaimed MacWhirter politely.

      ‘Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for tomorrow,’ Beatrice replied.

      ‘We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well,’ smiled the young man ironically.

      ‘I must look after you,’ said Beatrice.

      ‘You do — wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude.’ The meals were generally late, and something was always wrong.

      ‘Because I scan a list of puddings?’ smiled Beatrice uneasily.

      ‘For the puddings themselves, and all your good things. The piano, for instance. That was very nice indeed.’ He bowed to her.

      ‘Did it disturb you? But one does not hear very well in the study.’

      ‘I opened the door,’ said MacWhirter, bowing again.

      ‘It is not fair,’ said Beatrice. ‘I am clumsy now — clumsy. I once could play.’

      ‘You play excellently. Why that “once could”?’ said MacWhirter.

      ‘Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently,’ she replied.

      ‘We,’ said MacWhirter, ‘are humble amateurs, and to us you are more than excellent.’

      ‘Good old Monsieur Fannière, how he would scold me! He said I would not take my talent out of the napkin. He would quote me the New Testament. I always think Scripture false in French, do not you?’

      ‘Er — my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret to say.’

      ‘No? I was brought up at a convent school near Rouen.’

      ‘Ah — that would be very interesting.’

      ‘Yes, but I was there six years, and the interest wears off everything.’

      ‘Alas!’ assented MacWhirter, smiling.

      ‘Those times were very different from these,’ said Beatrice.

      ‘I should think so,’ said MacWhirter, waxing grave and sympathetic.

      Chapter 31

       Table of Contents

      In the same month of July, not yet a year after Siegmund’s death, Helena sat on the top of the tramcar with Cecil Byrne. She was dressed in blue linen, for the day had been hot. Byrne was holding up to her a yellow-backed copy of Einsame Menschen, and she was humming the air of the Russian folk-song printed on the front page, frowning, nodding with her head, and beating time with her hand to get the rhythm of the song. She turned suddenly to him, and shook her head, laughing.

      ‘I can’t get it — it’s no use. I think it’s the swinging of the car prevents me getting the time,’ she said.

      ‘These little outside things always come a victory over you,’ he laughed.

      ‘Do they?’ she replied, smiling, bending her head against the wind. It was six o’clock in the evening. The sky was quite overcast, after a dim, warm day. The tramcar was leaping along southwards. Out of the corners of his eyes Byrne watched the crisp morsels of hair shaken on her neck by the wind.

      ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘it feels rather like rain.’

      ‘Then,’ said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on the pavement, ‘you certainly ought not to be out.’

      ‘I ought not,’ she said, ‘for I’m totally unprovided.’

      Neither, however, had the slightest intention of turning back.

      Presently they descended from the car, and took a road leading uphill off the highway. Trees hung over one side, whilst on the other side stood a few villas with lawns upraised. Upon one of these lawns two great sheep-dogs rushed and stood at the brink of the, grassy declivity, at some height above the road, barking and urging boisterously. Helena and Byrne stood still to watch them. One dog was grey, as is usual, the other pale fawn. They raved extravagantly at the two pedestrians. Helena laughed at them.

      ‘They are —’ she began, in her slow manner.

      ‘Villa sheep-dogs baying us wolves,’ he continued.

      ‘No,’ she said, ‘they remind me of Fafner and Fasolt.’

      ‘Fasolt?

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