Hyacinth's Little Dinner
'The little Ottleys,' as they were called (they were a tall,
fine-looking couple), found themselves in a small circle of people who
were all most pleasing to the eye, with the single exception of Miss
Yeo. And even she, in a markedly elegant dress of a peculiarly vicious
shade of green, had her value in the picture. A little shocked by the
harshness of the colour, one's glance turned with relief to Hyacinth, in
satin of a blue so pale that it looked like the reflection of the sky in
water. A broad, pale blue ribbon was wound in and out of her brown hair
in the Romney fashion. Of course she looked her best. Women always do if
they wish to please one man when others are there, and she was in the
slightly exalted frame of mind that her reflection in the mirror had
naturally given her.
The faint atmosphere of chaperonage that always hung about Sir Charles
in Hyacinth's house did not interfere with his personal air of enjoying
an escapade, nor with his looking distinguished to the very verge of
absurdity. As to Cecil, the reaction from his disappointment of the
afternoon had made him look more vivid than usual. He was flushed
with failure.
He talked rather irresponsibly, and looked at Hyacinth, his neighbour at
dinner, with such obvious appreciation, that her gaiety became
infectious. In the little panelled dining-room which, like all the
house, was neither commonplace nor bizarre, but simple and
distinguished, floated an atmosphere of delightful ease and intimacy.
Sir Charles admired the red roses, which Anne declared she had bought
for two-and-threepence.
'Very ingenious,' said Sir Charles.
'I _am_ ingenious and clever,' said Anne. 'I get my cleverness from my
father, and my economy from my mother. My father's a clergyman, but his
wife was a little country girl--a sort of Merry Peasant; like Schumann's
piece, you know. Peasants are always merry.'
'I fancy that's a myth,' said Cecil. 'If not, I've been singularly
unfortunate, for all the peasants _I_ ever ran across seemed most
depressed.'
'Of course, if you ran over them!' said Hyacinth.
'But I didn't exactly run over them; I only asked them the way to
somewhere. They _were_ angry! Now I come to think of it, though, they
weren't peasants at all. It was only one man. He was a shepherd. I got
to know him better afterwards, and he was rather a good chap. Shepherds
don't have a bad time; they just wear ribbons and crooks and dance with
shepherdesses, you know.'
'Oh, then _can_ you tell me why a red sky at night is a shepherd's
delight?' asked Hyacinth. 'Is it because it's a sign of rain, and he
needn't look after the sheep, but can go fast asleep like little
Bo-peep--or was it little Boy Blue--if he likes?'
'For you, I'll try to find out; but I'm ashamed to say I know very
little of natural history--or machinery, or lots of other interesting
things. And, what's far worse, I don't even want to know any more. I
like to think there are some mysteries left in life.'
'I quite agree with you that it would be rather horrid to know exactly
how electricity works, and how trains go, and all that sort of thing. I
like some things just to _happen_. I never broke my dolls to see what
they were made of. I had them taken away the _moment_ any sawdust began
to come out,' said Hyacinth.
'You were perfectly right, Miss Verney. You're an Idealist; at least,
you don't like practical details. But still you take a great interest in
other people psychologically. You want to know, I'm sure, just how a
shepherd really feels, and why he feels it. I don't even care for that,
and I'm not very keen on scenery, or places either, or even things. My
Uncle Ted's so frightfully fond of Things. He's a collector, you know,
and I don't sympathise a bit. In fact, I hate things.'
'You seem rather difficult to please, Mr Reeve. What do you like?'
'People; at least, some people. Don't you?'
'Do you like people who talk nonsense?'
'Yes, and still more people who listen to it charmingly,' he answered.
'I didn't know before tonight that you ever listened to nonsense or
talked it. I always thought you were the person who solves all the Hard
Cases in _Vanity Fair_--under different names.'
'I wonder you didn't think I won all the prizes in the Limericks,' said
Hyacinth.
'I have my faults, Miss Verney, but I'm not blasphemous. Will you have
an olive?'
She accepted it. He lowered his voice to say--
'How wonderful you're looking tonight!'
'What am I to say to that? I don't think people should make unanswerable
remarks at dinner,' she said, trying to look reproving, but turning pink
with pleasure.
'If people will look adorable at dinner--or anywhere--they must take the
consequences,' said Cecil, under cover of a very animated discussion
between Bruce and Miss Yeo on sixpenny cab-fares.
Then for a second he felt a remorseful twinge of disloyalty. But that
was nonsense; wasn't he obeying Mrs Raymond's distinct commands? Nothing
would please her so much....
And to flirt with Hyacinth was not at all a disagreeable task. He
reflected that Eugenia might have asked him to do something a good
deal harder.
Under the combined influence, then, of duty, pique, and a little
champagne, he gave way to the curious fascination that Hyacinth had
always had for him, and she was only too ready to be happy.
He remembered how he had first met her. He had been dragged to the
Burlingtons' dance--he loathed all large parties--and, looking drearily
round, he'd been struck by, and asked to be introduced to, Miss Verney.
She wasn't Eugenia, of course, and could never, he was sure, be part of
his life. He thought that Eugenia appealed to his better nature and to
his intellect.
He felt even a little ashamed of the purely sensuous attraction Hyacinth
possessed for him, while he was secretly very proud of being in love
with Mrs Raymond. Not everyone would appreciate Eugenia! Cecil was still
young enough to wish to be different from other people, while desiring
still more, like all Englishmen, to _appear_ as much as possible like
everybody else.
He did not thoroughly understand Hyacinth; he couldn't quite place her.
She was certainly not the colourless _jeune fille_ idealised by the
French, but she had even less of the hard abruptness of the ordinary
young unmarried Englishwoman. She called herself a bachelor girl, but
hadn't the touch of the Bohemian that phrase usually seems to imply. She
was too plastic, too finished. He admired her social dexterity, her
perfect harmony with the charming background she had so well arranged
for herself. Yet, he thought, for such a young girl, only twenty-two,
she was too complex, too civilised. Mrs Raymond, for instance, seemed
much more downright and careless. He was growing somewhat bewildered
between his analysis of her character and his admiration for her mouth,
an admiration that was rather difficult to keep entirely cool and
theoretical, and that he felt a strong inclination to show in some more
practical manner.... With a sigh he turned to Edith Ottley, his other
neighbour.
As soon as Anne had locked up she removed with the greatest care her
emerald dress, which she grudged wearing a second longer than was
necessary, and put on an extraordinary dressing-gown, of which it was
hardly too much to say that there was probably not another one exactly
like it in Europe. Hyacinth always said it had been made out of an old
curtain from the Rev Mr Yeo's library in the Devonshire Rectory, and
Anne did not deny it.
She then screwed up her hair into a tight knot, put one small piece of
it into a curling pin, which she then pinned far back on her head (as if
afraid that the effect on the forehead would be too becoming), took off
her dainty green shoes, put on an enormous pair of grotesque slippers,
carpet slippers (also a relic), and went into Hyacinth's room. Anne made
it a rule every evening to go in for a few minutes to see Hyacinth and
talk against everyone they had seen during the day. She seemed to regard
it as a sacred duty, almost like saying her prayers. Hyacinth sometimes
professed to find this custom a nuisance, but she would certainly have
missed it. Tonight she was smiling happily to herself, and took no
notice of Anne's entrance.
'I suppose you think it went off well,' said Anne aggressively.
'Didn't it?'
'I thought the dinner was ridiculous. A young girl like you asking two
or three friends needn't have a banquet fit for a Colonial Conference.
Besides, the cook lost her head. She sent up the same dish twice.'
'Did she? How funny! How was that?'
'Of course, _you_ wouldn't know. She and the kitchenmaid were playing
Diabolo till the last minute in the housekeeper's room. However, you
needn't worry; nobody noticed it.'
'That's all right. Didn't Edith look pretty?'
Anne poked the fire spitefully.
'Like the outside of a cheap chocolate-box.'
'Oh, Anne, what nonsense! Bruce seemed irritable, and fatuous. I didn't
envy Edith going back with him.'
'Bruce was jealous of Cecil Reeve, of course. You hardly looked at
anybody else.'
'Anne, really tonight there were one or two little things that made me
think he is beginning to like me. I don't say he's perfect; I daresay he
has his faults. But there's something I like about his face. I wonder
what it is.'
'I know what it is, he's very good-looking,' said Anne.
'Do you think he cares for me?'
'No, I don't.'
'Oh, Anne!'
'I think, perhaps, he will, in time--in a way.'
'Do you think if I were very careful not to show I liked him it would be
better?'
'No, there's only one chance for you.'
'What is it?'
'Keep on hammering.'
'_Indeed_ I shan't! I never heard of such a thing. I suppose you think
there's somebody else?' said Hyacinth, sitting up angrily.
'Oh, I daresay he's just finishing off with someone or other, and you
may catch him on the rebound.'
'What horrid things you say!'
'I only say what I think,' said Anne. 'Anyhow, you had a success
tonight, I could see, because poor Charles seemed so depressed. Why do
you have all these electric lights burning when one lamp would
be enough?'
'Oh, go away, Anne, and don't bother,' said Hyacinth, laughing.
On his return home, Cecil suddenly felt a violent reaction in favour of
Mrs Raymond. Certainly he had enjoyed his evening with Hyacinth, but it
was very bitter to him to think what pleasure that enjoyment would have
given to Eugenia.... He began to think he couldn't live without her.
Something must be done. Further efforts must be made. The idea struck
him that he would go and see his uncle, Lord Selsey, about it. He knew
Uncle Ted was really fond of him, and wouldn't like to see his life
ruined (so he put it to himself), and his heart broken, though he also
probably would disapprove from the worldly point of view. Decidedly
unhappy, yet to a certain extent enjoying his misery, Cecil went
to sleep.