A CELEBRITY AT HOME
Miss Luscombe lived with her mother in a species of tank, or rather in a
flat that gave that impression because it was in the basement. It was
dark, and such glimpses as they had of people passing on the pavement
were extremely odd; it seemed a procession of legs and skirts, like
something in a pantomime or a cinematograph.
The Luscombes lived, as it were, beneath the surface; but that did not
prevent their being very much _dans le mouvement_, and coming up with
great frequency to the surface to breathe. And when one had once walked
down the steps and found one's way into the tank, it was an extremely
pleasant one, and quite artistic. It seemed original, too. There was
something almost freakish in being answered by the parlourmaid (who was
suitably like a fish in manner and profile), "Miss Luscombe is at home,
and will you please step downstairs?" when one had rung the bell on the
ground floor. And Miss Luscombe's ringing laugh with its three soprano
notes and upward cadence always greeted one charmingly and cordially,
and one always liked her; one couldn't help it. Her great fault was that
she was never alone. She existed in an atmosphere of teaparties and
'afternoons'; like the Lotus-Eaters, she lived in 'that land where it
was always afternoon'.
For an obscure person she led a singularly public life. In her existence
there seemed no secrets, no shadows, no contrasts, and no domesticity.
One could never imagine her except in what she regarded as full dress,
nor without, by her side, a perpetual bamboo table with three little
shelves in it, in which were distributed small cut pieces of very yellow
cake with very black currants, sandwiches, made of rather warm thin
bread and butter, pink and white cocoanut biscuits, and constant relays
of strong dark tea made in a drab china teapot. On crowded
afternoons--in fact, every other Thursday--little coffee cups containing
lumpy iced coffee were also handed round. When they had music there were
lemonade, mustard and cress sandwiches, and a buffet.
Even when Miss Luscombe was entirely alone she did not seem so. She had
got into the habit of talking always as if she were surrounded by
crowds, and said so much about the celebrities who ought to have turned
up that one felt almost as depressed as if they had really been there.
Sometimes they came, for there was no one like Miss Luscombe for
firmness. Also, she was never offended and was hospitality itself, and
she had a way of greeting one that was a reward for all one's
trouble--it seemed much more trouble than it really was, somehow, just
to step down into the tank. And she was so charming no one could help
being flattered till the next visitor arrived, when she was even more
charming.
After the Fancy Ball she had got hold of Valentia, who came to see her
on one of those Thursdays that she had pointed out as peculiarly her
own--one of _my_ Thursdays. She really believed that for any one else to
receive on that day was a kind of infringement of copyright.
Miss Luscombe was wearing on this occasion a drab taffeta silk dress
with transparent sleeves and a low neck. She wore a rose in her hair, a
necklace, and long gloves, because she said she wouldn't have time to
dress again before going out to dinner.
About a dozen people were there--vague shamefaced young men with nothing
to say, and confident, satirical, fluent young men with a great deal to
laugh at. Most of the older women seemed a shade patronising in tone,
and looked as if they had never been there before. On the faces of the
young women and the girls could be read the resolution never to go there
again.
Mrs. Luscombe, the mother, was so refined that there was scarcely
anything of her; her presence was barely perceptible. She had learnt the
art of self-effacement to the point of showing no trace of being there
at all. To add to the effect of not being noticeable, she wore a dress
exactly the same colour as the sofa on which she sat--like those insects
who, when hiding from their foes, become the colour of the leaves on
which they live. She was practically invisible.
On the other hand, Miss Luscombe herself was very much there--very much
_en évidence_. Smiling, greeting, archly laughing, sweetly pouting;
coquetting, eating, playing, singing, acting--almost dancing--an ideal
and delightful hostess.
She said to every one as they arrived how sweet it was of them to come
so early, or how naughty it was of them to come so late, or how horrid
it was of them not to come last time, or how dear it would be of them if
they came next. She always introduced people to each other who were not
on speaking terms, and had intentionally cut each other for years. She
had a real genius for making people accidentally meet who had just
broken off their engagement, or had some other awkward reason for not
wishing to see each other--and then pushing them together so that they
could not get away. At heart she was intensely a peacemaker, but people
who had met there rarely made up their quarrels.
When the favourite actor arrived she introduced him to every one till he
was ready to drop, and when the great singer telegraphed he couldn't
come, she showed the wire to everybody. Most of the guests preferred his
not coming. Very few could have endured her triumph had he really
arrived. On the other hand, they would themselves have far preferred to
receive a telegram of refusal rather than not to hear from him at all.
When these entertainments were over and the mother and daughter were
left alone, the daughter became far more thoroughly artificial than she
was when surrounded by her friends. There was no throwing off the mask;
on the contrary, it was fixed more firmly on, and Miss Luscombe gave
free vent to her sham passion for imitation comedy.
On this particular Thursday, as soon as Flora Luscombe had laughed her
last visitor archly to the door, she knelt by her mother's side, put her
arms round her, and said--
"Dear, dear Mummy, how sweet it is to be alone!"
Mrs. Luscombe shrank back a little. This pet name, only too appropriate,
always got a little on her nerves, but she felt bound to play up in an
amateurish sort of way to a certain extent.
"Hadn't you better go and take off that beautiful dress?" she said.
"You're not really dining out, are you?"
"No, dearest, I managed to get out of it, but alas! I've got to go to
the Reception--you know--that horrid Royal Institution of Water
Colours--afterwards. It isn't worth while to change again. Oh, how weary
one does get of the continual round! And then to-morrow!" She sighed.
"What is it to-morrow?"
"To-morrow! Don't talk of it! There's Mrs. Morris's At Home in Maida
Hill, and then right at the other end of London the Hyslop-Dunn's in
Victoria Grove. Oh, dear! And yet one feels one must be _seen_ at all
these places, darling, or else it's remarked at once."
"You live too much for the world," replied her mother, tidying up some
half-finished watercress sandwiches with a sharp knife. She wondered if,
thus repaired, they would do for next Thursday.
"You know, Mummy dear, that's the worst of our terrible profession. We
must keep before the public, or else we drop out and are forgotten. What
a sweet creature Valentia Wyburn is! I thought she was quite, quite
dear. And the husband and the cousin are darlings too. Of course they
wouldn't come; I couldn't get them to an afternoon."
She got up and looked in the glass.
"What a crowd there was to-day! Three people came up to the front door
at the same time. I think they enjoyed themselves, don't you? Though I
feel I can't pay every one proper attention when there's such a crush,
but I do my little best.... Mr. Simpson came up to me and told me I
looked quite wonderful. But he's a silly thing." She pouted and put her
head on one side. "Did I look too hideous, darling?"
"Beautiful, of course. The only thing is ..."
Miss Luscombe clapped her hands and laughed.
"Did its little girlie really look as nice as all that? Oh, Mummy,
Mummy!"
"Charming, dear, I only wish that ..."
"It's too proud of its little daughter, that's what it is," said Miss
Luscombe, sitting on the arm of her mother's chair. "It's a silly, vain,
conceited mother, that it is. It can't see any fault in its pet."
She tried to pat her mother's cheek. Mrs. Luscombe moved aside with
justifiable irritation.
"Don't do that, Flora! Yes, dear, of course, I think you're wonderful,
and looked sweet to-day; but I do wish ..."
"No, no, it doesn't want anything," said Flora.
"I should be so pleased--if you'd put on just a little less lip-salve
and not quite so much of that bluish powder."
Having succeeded in completing her sentence, her mother got up and faded
quickly out of the room and shut the door, leaving Flora looking quite
surprised and rather upset with being found fault with.
Indeed, she did not quite recover her equanimity until she had looked
over the cards in the hall and put on a great deal more powder and
lip-salve, after which she told her mother perhaps she was right, and in
any case she, Flora, would always do what she asked, and would always
follow her dear, dear Mummy's advice.
She was so charming and amiable that Mrs. Luscombe pretended to believe
her, and said it was _sweet_ of her to take it all off and go out that
evening without any adventitious aids to beauty; and this she said in
spite of the obvious fact that Flora had evidently put on considerably
more than usual.