perhaps to pack. Lettice Winter, forsaking her usual sofa, had curled up on the divan at the other side of the room. It was, perhaps, more comfortable; it gave also more space, and a better light, to her long legs and silk stockings. Miss Fisher, who was an expert in these matters, decided that the stockings were from Cairo, and that Miss Winter had acquired them there. She had brought No Orchids with her from upstairs. Miss Fisher allowed herself a marked look from the book to Miss Searle, who, unable at that distance to read the title which would have conveyed nothing to her in any case, related the look to Miss Winter’s uncovered knees and gave a slight, corroborative nod. Miss Fisher liked her the better for this sporting admission of her lighter reading.
This little exchange made them both miss the sound of footsteps on the path outside. Both of them, however, heard the slam of the front door. A moment later Neil Langton hesitated on the threshold of the Lounge, gave a quick glance at the empty sofa, and came inside. It was a windy night, and he was a good deal blown about. He must, Miss Fisher thought, have decided to do a little more walking after all; he had the interior glow, and a dark shine about the eyes, which distinctively comes with this exercise at night. Perhaps for this reason, or because of the high-necked pullover he had put on under his jacket, he looked much younger than he had seemed so far. It was possible to surmise that he had been a not unattractive young man, at a date not so very far remote. One could imagine him, now, in his twenties, physically saturnine over a basic good-humour, and superficially unkempt over a basic respect for razors and soap. He was a little out of breath; when Miss Searle and Miss Fisher looked up from their chosen pre-occupations, he distributed between them a smile which was nearly a grin.
“Whew,” he said, “I thought I was sunk. Tried one of these spurious short cuts and had to spend half an hour picking my way out of a bog.”
“I’m told,” said Miss Searle, “that some of them are really quite dangerous.” She felt, suddenly, almost protective.
“Well, they need watching up on the moor. There wasn’t anything to this one but waste of time. It was Mrs K I was worrying about.” He had already picked up from Miss Fisher this abbreviation. “She’s a great one for knowing what to do about the locking-up.”
“She was asking after you,” said a cool clear voice from the divan in the corner.
Neil turned round. His eyes had still the half-focussed look of people who have come indoors from wide spaces and the dark.
Lettice Winter did not smile. She looked at him, quite pleasantly and with perfect self-possession, as one might look at a hat in a shop-window which may possibly do: one will need first to turn it round and then perhaps, if it seems worth while, to try it on. It was not an arrogant look, but almost purely a conditioned sexual reflex. It said, in a voice as clear as the one in which she had spoken aloud: “Application received; state qualifications.”
It had never probably, achieved so quick an effect. The relaxed casual air, which had given the brief illusion of youth, went out like sun in a room where someone has snapped down a blind. His loose stance changed, with a stiffening like that of age. No one would have taken him now for anything but a schoolmaster.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better go and set her mind at rest.” The second sentence was addressed to Miss Fisher. He went out.
Lettice Winter turned a page or two of No Orchids and stifled a yawn. When, half an hour later, the door of the Lounge closed behind her, two mouths opened simultaneously, as if a starting-gun had been fired to set them off.
3 Novice
T HE WIND HAD DROPPED , and the fumed-oak barometer in the hall was set at Fair. Barlock, sheltered from what little breeze there was in its half-basin of hill and wooded cliff, shimmered in an autumnal
This little exchange made them both miss the sound of footsteps on the path outside. Both of them, however, heard the slam of the front door. A moment later Neil Langton hesitated on the threshold of the Lounge, gave a quick glance at the empty sofa, and came inside. It was a windy night, and he was a good deal blown about. He must, Miss Fisher thought, have decided to do a little more walking after all; he had the interior glow, and a dark shine about the eyes, which distinctively comes with this exercise at night. Perhaps for this reason, or because of the high-necked pullover he had put on under his jacket, he looked much younger than he had seemed so far. It was possible to surmise that he had been a not unattractive young man, at a date not so very far remote. One could imagine him, now, in his twenties, physically saturnine over a basic good-humour, and superficially unkempt over a basic respect for razors and soap. He was a little out of breath; when Miss Searle and Miss Fisher looked up from their chosen pre-occupations, he distributed between them a smile which was nearly a grin.
“Whew,” he said, “I thought I was sunk. Tried one of these spurious short cuts and had to spend half an hour picking my way out of a bog.”
“I’m told,” said Miss Searle, “that some of them are really quite dangerous.” She felt, suddenly, almost protective.
“Well, they need watching up on the moor. There wasn’t anything to this one but waste of time. It was Mrs K I was worrying about.” He had already picked up from Miss Fisher this abbreviation. “She’s a great one for knowing what to do about the locking-up.”
“She was asking after you,” said a cool clear voice from the divan in the corner.
Neil turned round. His eyes had still the half-focussed look of people who have come indoors from wide spaces and the dark.
Lettice Winter did not smile. She looked at him, quite pleasantly and with perfect self-possession, as one might look at a hat in a shop-window which may possibly do: one will need first to turn it round and then perhaps, if it seems worth while, to try it on. It was not an arrogant look, but almost purely a conditioned sexual reflex. It said, in a voice as clear as the one in which she had spoken aloud: “Application received; state qualifications.”
It had never probably, achieved so quick an effect. The relaxed casual air, which had given the brief illusion of youth, went out like sun in a room where someone has snapped down a blind. His loose stance changed, with a stiffening like that of age. No one would have taken him now for anything but a schoolmaster.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better go and set her mind at rest.” The second sentence was addressed to Miss Fisher. He went out.
Lettice Winter turned a page or two of No Orchids and stifled a yawn. When, half an hour later, the door of the Lounge closed behind her, two mouths opened simultaneously, as if a starting-gun had been fired to set them off.
3 Novice
T HE WIND HAD DROPPED , and the fumed-oak barometer in the hall was set at Fair. Barlock, sheltered from what little breeze there was in its half-basin of hill and wooded cliff, shimmered in an autumnal
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