“Beatrice,” said Helena, “I want to make a mould of your face . . . it
won’t take long. . . . Have you time?”
“Yes. . . . My train doesn’t leave until eight-thirty.”
“I’ll leave you for five minutes,” I said.
Lucia followed me into the bath. My hands shook, when I began to pour
the Scotch. Lucia took the bottle away from me, and poured me a large
drink.
She lighted two cigarettes; gave one to me, and said nothing, until I
had finished the Scotch.
Then, “You are behaving damn well, Pat, but what is it all about?”
“Noel’s wife is going to present him with a child,” I said. “He has
always wanted one. Isn’t it an extraordinary world?”
Lucia put her arms around my shoulders, and for a dreadful instant I
clung to her . . . trying not to sob, lest the sobs be heard in the room
outside.
“Steady,” Lucia said. I remembered that she, or someone else, had said
that to me long ago.
“It’s quite all right,” I said. “Noel and I did manage a year.”
“God,” said Lucia, to the shower bath and Helena’s array of face
lotions. “There are certain women, under the present system who should
take up professional card playing for a living. They certainly have no
luck in love.”