Shopping Chez Soi
Edith was expecting Aylmer to call that afternoon before he went away.
She was surprised to find how perturbed she was at the idea of his
going away. He had become almost a part of their daily existence, and
seeing him was certainly quite the most amusing and exciting experience
she had ever had. And now it was coming to an end. Some obscure
clairvoyance told her that his leaving and telling her of it in this
vague way had some reference to her; but perhaps (she thought) she was
wrong; perhaps it was simply that, after the pleasant intercourse and
semi-intimacy of the last few weeks, he was going to something that
interested him more? He was a widower; and still a young man. Perhaps
he was in love with someone. This idea was far from agreeable, although
except the first and second time they met he had never said a word that
could be described even as flirtation. He showed admiration for her,
and pleasure in her society, but he rarely saw her alone. The few
visits and _tête-à-têtes_ had always begun by conventional commonplace
phrases and embarrassment, and had ended in a delightful sympathy, in
animated conversation, in a flowing confidence and gaiety, and in long
discussions on books, and art, and principally people. That was all. In
fact he had become, in two or three weeks, in a sense _l'ami de la
maison_; they went everywhere with him and met nearly every day, and
Bruce appeared to adore him. It was entirely different from her long
and really intimate friendship with Vincy. Vincy was her confidant, her
friend. She could tell _him_ everything, and she did, and he confided
in her and told her all except one side of his life, of which she was
aware, but to which she never referred. This was his secret romance
with a certain girl artist of whom he never spoke, although Edith knew
that some day he would tell her about that also.
But with Aylmer there was, and would always be, less real freedom and
impersonal frankness, because there was so much more selfconsciousness;
in fact because there was an unacknowledged but very strong mutual
physical attraction. Edith had, however, felt until now merely the
agreeable excitement of knowing that a man she liked, and in whom she
was immensely interested, was growing apparently devoted to her, while
_she_ had always believed that she would know how to deal with the case
in such a way that it could never lead to anything more--that is to
say, to more than _she_ wished.
And now, he was going away. Why? And where? However, the first thing to
consider was that she would see him today. The result of this
consideration was the obvious one. She must do some shopping.
Edith was remarkably feminine in every attribute, in manner, in
movement and in appearance; indeed, for a woman of the present day
unusually and refreshingly feminine. Yet she had certain mental
characteristics which were entirely unlike most women. One was her
extreme aversion for shops, and indeed for going into any concrete
little details. It has been said that her feeling for dress was sure
and unerring. But it was entirely that of the artist; it was
impressionistic. Edith was very clever, indeed, most ingenious, in
managing practical affairs, as long as she was the director, the
general of the campaign. But she did not like carrying out in detail
her plans. She liked to be the architect, not the workman.
For example, the small household affairs in the flat went on wheels;
everything was almost always perfect. But Edith did not rattle her
housekeeping keys, or count the coals, nor did she even go through
accounts, or into the kitchen every day. The secret was simple. She had
a good cook and housekeeper, who managed all these important but
tedious details admirably, under her suggestions. In order to do this
Edith had to practise a little fraud on Bruce, a justifiable and quite
unselfish one. She gave the cook and housekeeper a quarter of her dress
allowance, in addition to the wages Bruce considered sufficient;
because Bruce believed that they could not afford more than a certain
amount for a cook, while he admitted that Edith, who had a few hundred
pounds a year of her own, might need to spend this on dress. Very
little of it went on dress, although Edith was not very economical. But
she had a plan of her own; she knew that to be dressed in a very
ordinary style (that is to say, simple, conventional, comme il faut)
suited her, by throwing her unusual beauty into relief. Occasionally a
touch of individuality was added, when she wanted to have a special
effect. But she never entered a shop; very rarely interviewed a
milliner. It was always done for her. She was easy to dress, being
tall, slim and remarkably pretty. She thought that most women make a
great mistake in allowing dress to be the master instead of the servant
of their good looks; many women were, she considered, entirely crushed
and made insignificant by the beauty of their clothes. The important
thing was to have a distinguished appearance, and this cannot, of
course, easily be obtained without expensive elegance. But Edith was
twenty-eight, and looked younger, so she could dress simply.
This morning Edith had telephoned to her friend, Miss Bennett, an old
schoolfellow who had nothing to do, and adored commissions. Edith,
sitting by the fire or at the 'phone, gave her orders, which were
always decisive, short and yet meticulous. Miss Bennett was a little
late this morning, and Edith had been getting quite anxious to see her.
When she at last arrived--she was a nondescript-looking girl, with a
small hat squashed on her head, a serge coat and skirt, black gloves
and shoes with spats--Edith greeted her rather reproachfully with:
'You're late, Grace.'
'Sorry,' said Grace.
The name suited her singularly badly. She was plain, but had a pleasant
face, a pink complexion, small bright eyes, protruding teeth and a
scenario for a figure, merely a collection of bones on which a dress
could be hung. She was devoted to Edith, and to a few other friends of
both sexes, of whom she made idols. She was hard, abrupt, enthusiastic,
ignorant and humorous.
'Sorry, but I had to do a lot of--'
'All right,' interrupted Edith. 'You couldn't help it. Listen' to what
I want you to do.'
'Go ahead,' said Miss Bennett, taking out a note-book and pencil.
Edith spoke in her low, soft, impressive voice, rather slowly.
'Go anywhere you like and bring me back two or three perfectly simple
tea-gowns--you know the sort of shape, rather like evening
cloaks--straight lines--none of the new draperies and curves--in red,
blue and black.'
'On appro.?' asked Miss Bennett.
'On anything you like, but made of Liberty satin, with a dull surface.'
'There's no such thing.' Grace Bennett laughed. 'You mean charmeuse, or
crepe-de-chine, perhaps?'
'Call it what you like, only get it. You must bring them back in a
taxi.'
'Extravagant girl!'
'They're not to cost more than--oh! not much,' added Edith, 'at the
most.'
'Economical woman! Why not have a really good tea-gown while you're
about it?'
'These _will_ be good. I want to have a hard outline like a
Fergusson.'
'Oh, really? What's that?'
'Never mind. And suppose you can't get the shape, Grace.'
'Yes?'
'Bring some evening cloaks--the kimonoish kind--I could wear one over a
lace blouse; it would look exactly the same.'
'Edith, what curious ideas you have! But you're right enough. Anything
else?' said Miss Bennett, standing up, ready to go. 'I like shopping
for you. You know what you want.'
'Buy me an azalea, not a large one, and a bit of some dull material of
the same colour to drape round it.'
'How extraordinary it is the way you hate anything shiny!' exclaimed
Miss Bennett, making a note.
'I know; I only like _mat_ effects. Oh, and in case I choose a
light-coloured gown, get me just one very large black velvet orchid,
too.'
'Right. That all?'
Edith looked at her shoes; they were perfect, tiny, pointed and made of
black suède. She decided they would do.
'Yes, that's all, dear.'
'And might I kindly ask,' said Miss Bennett, getting up, 'any
particular reason for all this? Are you going to have the flu, or a
party, or what?'
'No,' said Edith, who was always frank when it was possible. 'I'm
expecting a visitor who's never seen me in anything but a coat and
skirt, or in evening dress.'
'Oh! He wants a change, does he?'
'Don't be vulgar, Grace. Thanks awfully, dear. You're really kind.'
They both laughed, and Edith gently pushed her friend out of the room.
Then she sat down on a sofa, put up her feet, and began to read
_Rhythm_ to divert her thoughts. Vincy had brought it to convert her to
Post-Impressionism.
When Archie and Dilly were out, and Edith, who always got up rather
early, was alone, she often passed her morning hours in reading,
dreaming, playing the piano, or even in thinking. She was one of the
few women who really can think, and enjoy it. This morning she soon put
down the mad clever little prophetic Oxford journal. Considering she
was usually the most reposeful woman in London, she was rather restless
today. She glanced round the little room; there was nothing in it to
distract or irritate, or even to suggest a train of thought; except
perhaps the books; everything was calming and soothing, with a touch of
gaiety in the lightness of the wall decorations. An azalea, certainly,
would be a good note. The carpet, and almost everything in the room,
was green, except the small white enamelled piano. Today she felt that
she wanted to use all her influence to get Aylmer to confide in her
more. Perhaps he was slipping away from her--she would have been only a
little incident in his existence--while she certainly wished it to go
on. Seeing this, perhaps it oughtn't to go on. She wondered if he would
laugh or be serious today... whether...
* * * * *
Miss Bennett had come up in the lift with a heap of cardboard boxes,
and the azalea. A taxi was waiting at the door.
Edith opened the boxes, cutting the string with scissors. She put four
gowns out on the sofa. Grace explained that two were cloaks, two were
gowns--all she could get.
'That's the one,' said Edith, taking out one of a deep blue colour,
like an Italian sky on a coloured picture post-card. It had a collar of
the same deep blue, spotted with white--a birdseye effect. Taking off
her coat Edith slipped the gown over her dress, and went to her room
(followed closely by Miss Bennett) to see herself in the long mirror.
'Perfect!' said Edith. 'Only I must cut off those buttons. I hate
buttons.'
'How are you going to fasten it, then, dear?'
'With hooks and eyes. Marie can sew them on.'
The deep blue with the white spots had a vivid and charming effect, and
suited her blonde colouring; she saw she was very pretty in it, and was
pleased.
'Aren't you going to try the others on, dear?' asked Grace.
'No; what's the good? This one will do.'
'Right. Then I'll take them back.'
'You're sweet. Won't you come back to lunch?'
'I'll come back to lunch tomorrow,' said Miss Bennett, 'and you can
tell me about your tea-party. Oh, and here's a little bit of stuff for
the plant. I suppose you'll put the azalea into the large pewter vase?'
'Yes, and I'll tie this round its neck.'
'Sorry it's cotton,' said Miss Bennett. 'I couldn't get any silk the
right colour.'
'Oh, I like cotton, if only it's not called sateen! Good-bye, darling.
You're delightfully quick!'
'Yes, I don't waste time,' said Miss Bennett. 'Mother says, too, that
I'm the best shopper in the world.' She turned round to add, 'I'm dying
to know why you want to look so pretty. Who is it?'
With a quiet smile, Edith dismissed her.