MISS BELVOIR
We left Bertha and Madeline in the lift going up to call on Miss
Belvoir. This lady was sitting by the fire, holding a screen. She came
forward and greeted them with great cordiality. She was a small, dark,
amiable-looking woman about thirty. Her hair and eyes were of a
blackness one rarely sees, her complexion was clear and bright, her
figure extremely small and trim. Without being exactly pretty, she was
very agreeable to the eye, and also had the attraction of looking
remarkably different from other people. Indeed her costume was so
uncommon as to be on the verge of eccentricity. Her face had a slightly
Japanese look, and she increased this effect by wearing a gown of which
a part was decidedly Japanese. In fact it was a kimono covered with
embroidery in designs consisting of a flight of storks, some
chrysanthemums, and a few butterflies, in the richest shades of blue. In
the left-hand corner were two little yellow men fighting with a sword
in each hand; otherwise it was all blue. It was almost impossible to
keep one's eyes from this yellow duel; the little embroidered figures
looked so fierce and emotional and appeared to be enjoying themselves so
much.
The room in which Miss Belvoir received her friends was very large, long
and low, and had a delightful view of the river from the Embankment. It
was a greyish afternoon, vague and misty, and one saw from the windows
views that looked exactly like pictures by Whistler. The room was
furnished in a Post-Impressionist style, chiefly in red, black and
brown; the colours were all plain--that is to say, there were no designs
except on the ceiling, which was cosily covered with large, brilliantly
tinted, life-sized parrots.
Miss Belvoir's brother, Fred, often declared that when he came home
late, which he generally did--between six and nine in the morning were
his usual hours--he always had to stop himself from getting a gun, and
he was afraid that some day he might lose his self-control and be
tempted to shoot the parrots. He was an excellent shot.
The room was full of low bookcases crammed with books, and large fat
cushions on the floor. They looked extremely comfortable, but as a
matter of fact nobody ever liked sitting on them. When English people
once overcame their natural shyness so far as to sit down on them, they
were afraid they would never be able to get up again.
Three or four people were dotted about the room, but no one had ventured
on the cushions. There was one young lady whose hair was done in the
early Victorian style, parted in the middle, with bunches of curls each
side. As far as her throat she appeared to be strictly a Victorian--very
English, about 1850--but from that point she suddenly became Oriental,
and for the rest was dressed principally in what looked like beaded
curtains.
Leaning on the mantelpiece and smoking a cigarette with great ease of
manner was a striking and agreeable-looking young man, about eight and
twenty, whom Miss Belvoir introduced as Mr. Bevan Fairfield. He was fair
and good-looking, very dandified in dress, and with a rather humorously
turned-up nose and an excessively fluent way of speaking.
"I was just scolding Miss Belvoir," he said, "when you came in. She's
been playing me the trick she's always playing. She gets me here under
the pretext that some celebrity's coming and then they don't turn up.
Signor Semolini, the Futurist, I was asked to meet. And then she gets a
telegram--or says she does--that he can't come. Very odd, very curious,
they never can come--at any rate when I'm here. Some people would rather
say, 'Fancy, I was asked to Miss Belvoir's the other day to meet
Semolini, only he didn't turn up,' than not say anything at all. Some
people think it's a distinction not to have met Semolini at Miss
Belvoir's."
"It's quite a satisfactory distinction," remarked Bertha. "Semolini has
been to see us once, but he really isn't very interesting."
"Ah, but still you're able to say that. I sha'n't be able to say, 'I met
Semolini the other day, and, do you know, he's such a disappointment.'"
"Well, I couldn't help it, Bevan," murmured Miss Belvoir, smiling.
"No, I know you couldn't help it. Of course you couldn't help it. That's
just it--you never expected the man. I went to lunch with another liar
last week--I beg your pardon, Miss Belvoir--who asked me to meet Duse.
She was so sorry she couldn't come at the last minute. She sent a
telegram. Well, all I ask is, let me see the telegram."
"But you couldn't; he 'phoned," objected Miss Belvoir.
"So you _say_," returned the young man, as he passed a cup of tea to
Bertha.
"Will you have China tea and lemon and be smart, or India tea and milk
and sugar and enjoy it? I don't mind owning that I like stewed tea--I
like a nice comfortable washer-woman's cup of tea myself. Well, I
suppose we're all going to the Indian ball at the Albert Hall. What are
you all going as? I suppose Miss Belvoir's going as a nautch-girl, or a
naughty girl or something."
"I'm going as a Persian dancer," said Miss Belvoir.
"I'm not going as anything," said Bertha. "I hate fancy balls. One takes
such a lot of trouble and then people look only at their own dresses. If
you want to dress up for yourself, you'd enjoy it just as much if you
dressed up alone, I think."
"Well, of course it's not so much fun for women," said Mr. Fairfield.
"You are always more or less in fancy dress; it's no change for you. But
for us it is fun. The last one I went to I had a great success as a
forget-me-not. Miss Belvoir and I met an elephant, an enormous creature,
galumphing along, knocking everybody down, and wasn't it clever of me? I
recognised it! 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'this must be the
Mitchells!' And so it turned out to be. Mr. Mitchell was one leg, Mrs.
Mitchell the other, two others were their great friends and their
little nephew was the trunk. Frightfully uncomfortable, but they did
attract a great deal of attention. They nearly died of the stuffiness,
but they took a prize. My friend Linsey usually takes a prize, though he
always contrives some agonising torture for himself. The last time he
was a letter-box, and he was simply dying of thirst and unable to move.
I saved his life by pouring some champagne down the slit for the
letters, on the chance. Another friend of mine who was dressed in a real
suit of armour had to be lifted into the taxi, and when he arrived home
he couldn't get out. When he at last persuaded the cabman to carry him
to his door--it was six o'clock in the morning--the man said, 'Oh, never
mind, sir, we've had gentlemen worse than this!' And the poor fellow
hadn't had a single drop or crumb the whole evening, because his visor
was down and he couldn't move his arm to lift it up. If you went as
anything, Mrs. Kellynch, you ought to be a China Shepherdess. I never
saw anyone so exactly like one."
"And what ought I to go as?" asked Madeline.
"You would look your best as a Florentine page," replied Mr. Fairfield.
"Or both of you would look very nice as late Italians."
"I'm afraid we shall be late Englishwomen unless we go now," said
Bertha. "I can only stay a very few minutes to-day, Miss Belvoir."
They persuaded her to remain a little longer, and Mr. Fairfield
continued to chatter on during the remainder of their visit. He did not
succeed in persuading them to join in making up the party for the Indian
ball.