much abbreviated that neither of them understood it. Walter Prodger? But
they’d never heard of him. Mother looked from the card to Milly.
“Prodger, dear?” she asked mildly, as though helping Milly to a slice of
a never-before-tasted pudding.
And Milly seemed to be holding her plate back in the way she answered
“I—don’t—know, Mother.”
“These are the occasions,” said Mother, becoming a little flustered,
“when one does so feel the need of our dear English servants. Now if I
could just say, ‘What is he like, Annie?’ I should know whether to see
him or not. But he may be some common man, selling something—one of those
American inventions for peeling things, you know, dear. Or he may even be
some kind of foreign sharper.” Mother winced at the hard, bright little
word as though she had given herself a dig with her embroidery scissors.
But here Marie smiled at Milly and murmured “C’est un très beau Monsieur.”
“What does she say, dear?”
“She says he looks very nice, Mother.”
“Well, we’d better——” began Mother. “Where is he now I wonder.”
Marie answered “In the vestibule, Madame.”
In the hall! Mother jumped up, seriously alarmed. In the hall, with all
those valuable little foreign things that didn’t belong to them scattered
over the tables.
“Show him in, Marie. Come, Milly, come dear. We will see him in the
salon. Oh, why isn’t Miss Anderson here?” almost wailed Mother.
But Miss Anderson, Mother’s new companion, never was on the spot when
she was wanted. She had been engaged to be a comfort, a support to them
both. Fond of travelling, a cheerful disposition, a good packer and so
on. And then, when they had come all this way and taken the Villa Martin
and moved in, she had turned out to be a Roman Catholic. Half her time,
more than half, was spent wearing out the knees of her skirts in cold
churches. It was really too....
The door opened. A middle-aged clean-shaven, very well dressed stranger
stood bowing before them. His bow was stately. Milly saw it pleased
Mother very much; she bowed her Queen Alexandra bow back. As for Milly,
she never could bow. She smiled, feeling shy, but deeply interested.
“Have I the pleasure,” said the stranger very courteously, with a strong
American accent, “of speaking with Mrs. Wyndham Fawcett?”
“I am Mrs. Fawcett,” said Mother, graciously, “and this is my daughter,
Mildred.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Fawcett.” And the stranger shot a fresh, chill
hand at Milly, who grasped it just in time before it was gone again.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Mother, and she waved faintly at all the gilt
chairs.
“Thank you, I will,” said the stranger.
Down he sat, still solemn, crossing his legs, and, most surprisingly, his
arms as well. His face looked at them over his dark arms as over a gate.
“Milly, sit down, dear.”
So Milly sat down, too, on the Madame Recamier couch, and traced a filet
lace flower with her finger. There was a little pause. She saw the
stranger swallow; Mother’s fan opened and shut.
Then he said “I took the liberty of calling, Mrs. Fawcett, because
had the pleasure of your husband’s acquaintance in the States when he
was lecturing there some years ago. I should like very much to renoo
our—well—I venture to hope we might call it friendship. Is he with
you at present? Are you expecting him out? I noticed his name was not
mentioned in the local paper. But I put that down to a foreign custom,
perhaps—giving precedence to the lady.”
And here the stranger looked as though he might be going to smile.
But as a matter of fact it was extremely awkward. Mother’s mouth shook.
Milly squeezed her hands between her knees, but she watched hard from
under her eyebrows. Good, noble little Mummy! How Milly admired her as
she heard her say, gently and quite simply, “I am sorry to say my husband
died two years ago.”
Mr. Prodger gave a great start. “Did he?” He thrust out his under lip,
frowned, pondered. “I am truly sorry to hear that, Mrs. Fawcett. I hope
you’ll believe me when I say I had no idea your husband had ... passed
over.”
“Of course.” Mother softly stroked her skirt.
“I do trust,” said Mr. Prodger, more seriously still, “that my inquiry
didn’t give you too much pain.”
“No, no. It’s quite all right,” said the gentle voice.
But Mr. Prodger insisted. “You’re sure? You’re positive?”
At that Mother raised her head and gave him one of her still, bright,
exalted glances that Milly knew so well. “I’m not in the least hurt,” she
said, as one might say it from the midst of the fiery furnace.
Mr. Prodger looked relieved. He changed his attitude and continued. “I
hope this regrettable circumstance will not deprive me of your——”
“Oh, certainly not. We shall be delighted. We are always so pleased to
know any one who——” Mother gave a little bound, a little flutter. She
flew from her shadowy branch on to a sunny one. “Is this your first visit
to the Riviera?”
“It is,” said Mr. Prodger. “The fact is I was in Florence until recently.
But I took a heavy cold there——”
“Florence so damp,” cooed Mother.
“And the doctor recommended I should come here for the sunshine before I
started for home.”
“The sun is so very lovely here,” agreed Mother, enthusiastically.
“Well, I don’t think we get too much of it,” said Mr. Prodger, dubiously,
and two lines showed at his lips. “I seem to have been sitting around in
my hotel more days than I care to count.”
“Ah, hotels are so very trying,” said Mother, and she drooped
sympathetically at the thought of a lonely man in an hotel.... “You are
alone here?” she asked, gently, just in case ... one never knew ... it
was better to be on the safe, the tactful side.
But her fears were groundless.
“Oh, yes, I’m alone,” cried Mr. Prodger, more heartily than he had spoken
yet, and he took a speck of thread off his immaculate trouser leg.
Something in his voice puzzled Milly. What was it?
“Still, the scenery is so very beautiful,” said Mother, “that one really
does not feel the need of friends. I was only saying to my daughter
yesterday I could live here for years without going outside the garden
gate. It is all so beautiful.”
“Is that so?” said Mr. Prodger, soberly. He added, “You have a very
charming villa.” And he glanced round the salon. “Is all this antique
furniture genuine, may I ask?”
“I believe so,” said Mother. “I was certainly given to understand it
was. Yes, we love our villa. But of course it is very large for two,
that is to say three, ladies. My companion, Miss Anderson, is with us.
But unfortunately she is a Roman Catholic, and so she is out most of the
time.”
Mr. Prodger bowed as one who agreed that Roman Catholics were very seldom
in.
“But I am so fond of space,” continued Mother, “and so is my daughter. We
both love large rooms and plenty of them—don’t we, Milly?”
This time Mr. Prodger looked at Milly quite cordially and remarked, “Yes,
young people like plenty of room to run about.”
He got up, put one hand behind his back, slapped the other upon it and
went over to the balcony.
“You’ve a view of the sea from here,” he observed.
The ladies might well have noticed it; the whole Mediterranean swung
before the windows.
“We are so fond of the sea,” said Mother, getting up, too.
Mr. Prodger looked towards Milly. “Do you see those yachts, Miss Fawcett?”
Milly saw them.
“Do you happen to know what they’re doing?” asked Mr. Prodger.
What they were doing? What a funny question! Milly stared and bit her lip.
“They’re racing!” said Mr. Prodger, and this time he did actually smile
at her.
“Oh, yes, of course,” stammered Milly. “Of course they are.” She knew
that.
“Well, they’re not always at it,” said Mr. Prodger, good-humouredly. And
he turned to Mother and began to take a ceremonious farewell.
“I wonder,” hesitated Mother, folding her little hands and eyeing him,
“if you would care to lunch with us—if you would not be too dull with two
ladies. We should be so very pleased.”
Mr. Prodger became intensely serious again. He seemed to brace himself
to meet the luncheon invitation. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Fawcett. I
should be delighted.”
“That will be very nice,” said Mother, warmly. “Let me see. Today is
Monday—isn’t it, Milly? Would Wednesday suit you?”
Mr. Prodger replied, “It would suit me excellently to lunch with you on
Wednesday, Mrs. Fawcett. At _mee-dee_, I presume, as they call it here.”
“Oh, no! We keep our English times. At one o’clock,” said Mother.
And that being arranged, Mr. Prodger became more and more ceremonious and
bowed himself out of the room.
Mother rang for Marie to look after him, and a moment later the big glass
hall-door shut.
“Well!” said Mother. She was all smiles. Little smiles like butterflies,
alighting on her lips and gone again. “That was an adventure, Milly,
wasn’t it, dear? And I thought he was such a very charming man, didn’t
you?”
Milly made a little face at Mother and rubbed her eye.
“Of course you did. You must have, dear. And his appearance was so
satisfactory—wasn’t it?” Mother was obviously enraptured. “I mean he
looked so very well kept. Did you notice his hands? Every nail shone like
a diamond. I must say I do like to see....”
She broke off. She came over to Milly and patted her big collar straight.
“You do think it was right of me to ask him to lunch—don’t you, dear?”
said Mother pathetically.
Mother made her feel so big, so tall. But she was tall. She could pick
Mother up in her arms. Sometimes, rare moods came when she did. Swooped
on Mother who squeaked like a mouse and even kicked. But not lately. Very
seldom now....
“It was so strange,” said Mother. There was the still, bright, exalted
glance again. “I suddenly seemed to hear Father say to me ‘Ask him to
lunch.’ And then there was some—warning.... I think it was about the
wine. But that I didn’t catch—very unfortunately,” she added, mournfully.
She put her hand on her breast; she bowed her head. “Father is still so
near,” she whispered.
Milly looked out of the window. She hated Mother going on like this. But
of course she couldn’t say anything. Out of the window there was the sea
and the sunlight silver on the palms, like water dripping from silver
oars. Milly felt a yearning—what was it?—it was like a yearning to fly.
But Mother’s voice brought her back to the salon, to the gilt chairs, the
gilt couches, sconces, cabinets, the tables with the heavy-sweet flowers,
the faded brocade, the pink-spotted Chinese dragons on the mantelpiece
and the two Turks’ heads in the fireplace that supported the broad logs.
“I think a leg of lamb would be nice, don’t you, dear?” said Mother. “The
lamb is so very small and delicate just now. And men like nothing so
much as plain roast meat. Yvonne prepares it so nicely, too, with that
little frill of paper lace round the top of the leg. It always reminds
me of something—I can’t think what. But it certainly makes it look very
attractive indeed.”
§
Wednesday came. And the flutter that Mother and Milly had felt over the
visiting card extended to the whole villa. Yes, it was not too much to
say that the whole villa thrilled and fluttered at the idea of having a
man to lunch. Old, flat-footed Yvonne came waddling back from market with
a piece of gorgonzola in so perfect a condition that when she found Marie
in the kitchen she flung down her great basket, snatched the morsel up
and held it, rustling in its paper, to her quivering bosom.
“J’ai trouvé un morceau de gorgonzola,” she panted, rolling up her eyes
as though she invited the heavens themselves to look down upon it. “J’ai
un morceau de gorgonzola ici pour un prince, ma fille.” And hissing the
word “prr-ince” like lightning, she thrust the morsel under Marie’s
nose. Marie, who was a delicate creature, almost swooned at the shock.
“Do you think,” cried Yvonne, scornfully, “that I would ever buy such
cheese _pour ces dames_? Never. Never. _Jamais de ma vie._” Her sausage
finger wagged before her nose, and she minced in a dreadful imitation of
Mother’s French, “We have none of us large appetites, Yvonne. We are very
fond of boiled eggs and mashed potatoes and a nice, plain salad. Ah-Bah!”
With a snort of contempt she flung away her shawl, rolled up her sleeves,
and began unpacking the basket. At the bottom there was a flat bottle
which, sighing, she laid aside.
“De quoi pour mes cors,” said she.
And Marie, seizing a bottle of Sauterne and bearing it off to the
dining-room murmured, as she shut the kitchen door behind her, “Et voilà
pour les cors de Monsieur!”
The dining-room was a large room panelled in dark wood. It had a massive
mantelpiece and carved chairs covered in crimson damask. On the heavy,
polished table stood an oval glass dish decorated with little gilt swags.
This dish, which it was Marie’s duty to keep filled with fresh flowers,
fascinated her. The sight of it gave her a _frisson_. It reminded her
always, as it lay solitary on the dark expanse, of a little tomb. And
one day, passing through the long windows on to the stone terrace and
down the steps into the garden she had the happy thought of so arranging
the flowers that they would be appropriate to one of the ladies on a
future tragic occasion. Her first creation had been terrible. _Tomb of
Mademoiselle Anderson_ in black pansies, lily-of-the-valley, and a frill
of heliotrope. It gave her a most intense, curious pleasure to hand Miss
Anderson the potatoes at lunch, and at the same time to gaze beyond her
at her triumph. It was like (_O ciel!_), it was like handing potatoes to
a corpse.
The _Tomb of Madame_ was on the contrary almost gay. Foolish little
flowers, half yellow, half blue, hung over the edge, wisps of green
trailed across, and in the middle there was a large scarlet rose. _Cœur
saignant_, Marie had called it. But it did not look in the least like a
_cœur saignant_. It looked flushed and cheerful, like Mother emerging
from the luxury of a warm bath.
Milly’s, of course, was all white. White stocks, little white rose-buds,
with a sprig or two of dark box edging. It was Mother’s favorite.
Poor innocent! Marie, at the sideboard, had to turn her back when she
heard Mother exclaim, “Isn’t it pretty, Milly? Isn’t it sweetly pretty?
Most artistic. So original.” And she had said to Marie, “C’est très joli,
Marie. Très original.”
Marie’s smile was so remarkable that Milly, peeling a tangerine, remarked
to Mother, “I don’t think she likes you to admire them. It makes her
uncomfortable.”
But today—the glory of her opportunity made Marie feel quite faint as
she seized her flower scissors. _Tombeau d’un beau Monsieur._ She was
forbidden to cut the orchids that grew round the fountain basin. But what
were orchids for if not for such an occasion? Her fingers trembled as the
scissors snipped away. They were enough; Marie added two small sprays of
palm. And back in the dining-room she had the happy idea of binding the
palm together with a twist of gold thread deftly torn off the fringe of
the dining-room curtains. The effect was superb. Marie almost seemed to
see her _beau Monsieur_, very small, very small, at the bottom of the
bowl, in full evening dress with a ribbon across his chest and his ears
white as wax.
What surprised Milly, however, was that Miss Anderson should pay any
attention to Mr. Prodger’s coming. She rustled to breakfast in her best
black silk blouse, her Sunday blouse, with the large, painful-looking
crucifix dangling over the front. Milly was alone when Miss Anderson
entered the dining-room. This was unfortunate, for she always tried to
avoid being left alone with Miss Anderson. She could not say exactly
why; it was a feeling. She had the feeling that Miss Anderson might say
something about God, or something fearfully intimate. Oh, she would sink
through the floor if such a thing happened; she would expire. Supposing
she were to say “Milly, do you believe in our Lord?” Heavens! It simply
didn’t bear thinking about.
“Good-morning, my dear,” said Miss Anderson, and her fingers, cold, pale,
like church candles, touched Milly’s cheeks.
“Good-morning, Miss Anderson. May I give you some coffee?” said Milly,
trying to be natural.
“Thank you, dear child,” said Miss Anderson, and laughing her light,
nervous laugh, she hooked on her eyeglasses and stared at the basket of
rolls. “And is it today that you expect your guest?” she asked.
Now why did she ask that? Why pretend when she knew perfectly well? That
was all part of her strangeness. Or was it because she wanted to be
friendly? Miss Anderson was more than friendly; she was genial. But there
was always this something. Was she spying? People said at school that
Roman Catholics spied.... Miss Anderson rustled, rustled about the house
like a dead leaf. Now she was on the stairs, now in the upstairs passage.
Sometimes, at night, when Milly was feverish, she woke up and heard that
rustle outside her door. Was Miss Anderson looking through the keyhole?
And one night she actually had the idea that Miss Anderson had bored two
holes in the wall above her head and was watching her from there. The
feeling was so strong that next time she went into Miss Anderson’s room
her eyes flew to the spot. To her horror a large picture hung there. Had
it been there before?...
“Guest?” The crisp breakfast roll broke in half at the word.
“Yes, I think it is,” said Milly, vaguely, and her blue, flower-like eyes
were raised to Miss Anderson in a vague stare.
“It will make quite a little change in our little party,” said the
much-too-pleasant voice. “I confess I miss very much the society of men.
I have had such a great deal of it in my life. I think that ladies by
themselves are apt to get a little—h’m—h’m....” And helping herself to
cherry jam, she spilt it on the cloth.
Milly took a large, childish bite out of her roll. There was nothing to
reply to this. But how young Miss Anderson made her feel! She made her
want to be naughty, to pour milk over her head or make a noise with a
spoon.
“Ladies by themselves,” went on Miss Anderson, who realized none of this,
“are very apt to find their interests limited.”
“Why?” said Milly, goaded to reply. People always said that; it sounded
most unfair.
“I think,” said Miss Anderson, taking off her eyeglasses and looking a
little dim, “it is the absence of political discussion.”
“Oh, politics!” cried Milly, airily. “I hate politics. Father always
said——” But here she pulled up short. She crimsoned. She didn’t want to
talk about Father to Miss Anderson.
“Oh! Look! Look! A butterfly!” cried Miss Anderson, softly and hastily.
“Look, what a darling!” Her own cheeks flushed a slow red at the sight of
the darling butterfly fluttering so softly over the glittering table.
That was very nice of Miss Anderson—fearfully nice of her. She must have
realized that Milly didn’t want to talk about Father and so she had
mentioned the butterfly on purpose. Milly smiled at Miss Anderson as she
never had smiled at her before. And she said in her warm, youthful voice,
“He is a duck, isn’t he? I love butterflies. I think they are great
lambs.”
§
The morning whisked away as foreign mornings do. Mother had half decided
to wear her hat at lunch.
“What do you think, Milly? Do you think as head of the house it might be
appropriate? On the other hand one does not want to do anything at all
extreme.”
“Which do you mean, Mother? Your mushroom or the jampot?”
“Oh, not the jampot, dear.” Mother was quite used to Milly’s name for it.
“I somehow don’t feel myself in a hat without a brim. And to tell you
the truth I am still not quite certain whether I was wise in buying the
jampot. I cannot help the feeling that if I were to meet Father in it he
would be a little too surprised. More than once lately,” went on Mother
quickly, “I have thought of taking off the trimming, turning in upside
down, and making it into a nice little workbag. What do you think, dear?
But we must not go into it now, Milly. This is not the moment for such
schemes. Come on to the balcony. I have told Marie we shall have coffee
there. What about bringing out that big chair with the nice, substantial
legs for Mr. Prodger? Men are so fond of nice, substantial.... No, not by
yourself, love! Let me help you.”
When the chair was carried out Milly thought it looked exactly like Mr.
Prodger. It _was_ Mr. Prodger admiring the view.
“No, don’t sit down on it. You mustn’t,” she cried hastily, as Mother
began to subside. She put her arm through Mother’s and drew her back into
the salon.
Happily, at that moment there was a rustle and Miss Anderson was upon
them. In excellent time, for once. She carried a copy of the _Morning
Post_.
“I have been trying to find out from this,” said she, lightly tapping the
newspaper with her eyeglasses, “whether Congress is sitting at present.
But unfortunately, after reading my copy right through, I happened to
glance at the heading and discovered it was five weeks’ old.”
Congress! Would Mr. Prodger expect them to talk about Congress? The idea
terrified Mother. Congress! The American parliament, of course, composed
of senators—grey-bearded old men in frock coats and turn-down collars,
rather like missionaries. But she did not feel at all competent to
discuss them.
“I think we had better not be too intellectual,” she suggested, timidly,
fearful of disappointing Miss Anderson, but more fearful still of the
alternative.
“Still, one likes to be prepared,” said Miss Anderson. And after a pause
she added softly, “One never knows.”
Ah, how true that is! One never does. Miss Anderson and Mother seemed
both to ponder this truth. They sat silent, with head bent, as though
listening to the whisper of the words.
“One never knows,” said the pink-spotted dragons on the mantelpiece and
the Turks’ heads pondered. Nothing is known—nothing. Everybody just waits
for things to happen as they were waiting there for the stranger who came
walking towards them through the sun and shadow under the budding plane
trees, or driving, perhaps, in one of the small, cotton-covered cabs....
An angel passed over the Villa Martin. In that moment of hovering
silence something beseeching seemed to lift, seemed to offer itself, as
the flowers in the salon, uplifted, gave themselves to the light.
Then Mother said, “I hope Mr. Prodger will not find the scent of the
mimosa too powerful. Men are not fond of flowers in a room as a rule. I
have heard it causes actual hay-fever in some cases. What do you think,
Milly? Ought we perhaps——” But there was no time to do anything. A
long firm trill sounded from the hall door. It was a trill so calm and
composed and unlike the tentative little push they gave the bell that it
brought them back to the seriousness of the moment. They heard a man’s
voice; the door clicked and shut again. He was inside. A stick rattled
on the table. There was a pause, and then the door handle of the salon
turned and Marie, in frilled muslin cuffs and an apron shaped like a
heart, ushered in Mr. Prodger.
Only Mr. Prodger after all? But whom had Milly expected to see? The
feeling was there and gone again that she would not have been surprised
to see somebody quite different, before she realized this wasn’t quite
the same Mr. Prodger as before. He was smarter than ever; all brushed,
combed, shining. The ears that Marie had seen white as wax flashed as if
they had been pink enamelled. Mother fluttered up in her pretty little
way, so hoping he had not found the heat of the day too trying to be out
in ... but happily it was a little early in the year for dust. Then Miss
Anderson was introduced. Milly was ready this time for that fresh hand,
but she almost gasped; it was so very chill. It was like a hand stretched
out to you from the water. Then together they all sat down.
“Is this your first visit to the Riviera?” asked Miss Anderson,
graciously, dropping her handkerchief.
“It is,” answered Mr. Prodger composedly, and he folded his arms as
before. “I was in Florence until recently, but I caught a heavy cold——”
“Florence so——” began Mother, when the beautiful brass gong, that burned
like a fallen sun in the shadows of the hall, began to throb. First it
was a low muttering, then it swelled, it quickened, it burst into a clash
of triumph under Marie’s sympathetic fingers. Never had they been treated
to such a performance before. Mr. Prodger was all attention.
“That’s a very fine gong,” he remarked approvingly.
“We think it is so very Oriental,” said Mother. “It gives our little
meals quite an Eastern flavour. Shall we....”
Their guest was at the door bowing.