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“See, your guests approach, Address yourself to entertain them sprightly.”

The Winter’s Tale.

Although far from feeling at ease in her step-brother’s company, Beatrice would have liked to prolong the drive from Euston to Portland Place, and put off the moment when she must meet the rest of the family, whom she pictured as grouped in the hall prepared to receive her. But when the front door closed on them only the butler was there. Her ladyship, he said, and Miss Dobie had not yet come in.

“After your journey,” said Sir Samuel, “I expect you would like to go straight to your room. Betha and Elaine must have been detained. I know they expected to be in when you arrived. I told them the time—Ah, here is Higgins, she will take you to your room and be sure you ask for anything you want. . . . See you at dinner—8.30.”

Beatrice went up two flights of long stairs and was shown into the room that was to be hers. The maid turned on the electric fire, showed her the nearest bathroom, and suggested that she would lay out what Miss Dobie meant to wear that evening, and unpack the boxes while she was at dinner.

“You may want to rest now, Miss,” she said, “and it would make such a litter in the room.”

But Beatrice assured her that she was not in the least tired.

“I think I’d like to unpack myself, if you don’t mind, and then I’ll know where everything is. Not that there’s a very great deal to unpack,” she added.

“Being in mourning,” said Higgins, “you don’t want an accumulation.”

Beatrice agreed. She liked the look of Higgins, her middle-aged figure and round face and spectacles. There was something rather countrified and innocent about her.

“Perhaps I could get you a cup of tea, Miss?”

“No, thank you. I had tea in the train. It’s a very short, comfortable journey from Scotland.”

“So I’ve heard, Miss, but I’ve never had the chance to try it. . . . Can’t I put those away for you? It’s a pity to have you stooping and I’m used to it, being her ladyship’s maid.”

She was a most efficient maid, Beatrice realised, as she speedily and neatly unpacked and disposed of the boxes, and tidied the room.

“There now, Miss, you’re quite settled in as you might say. Everything put away under your own eye. . . . Now shall I turn on a nice hot bath? The bathroom’s practically your own so you need have no fear of being disturbed; a lady hates to be hurried with the bath.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Beatrice, wondering to herself how Fairlie would have behaved under the same circumstances. “Only,” she reflected, with a somewhat wry smile, “it couldn’t have happened in our house, for never would a guest have been left to a maid.”

Still, she admitted to herself, it was much pleasanter and easier for her to be in her own room with the kindly, helpful Higgins than sitting, as she might have had to do, downstairs, making difficult conversation with strange relations until it was time to dress for dinner. Now, at her leisure, she could have a bath and dress, and become accustomed to her surroundings.

She looked round the room which was furnished in a way that she had hitherto only seen in advertisements. Everything was the last word in modernity, and, the girl thought, hideous. The carpet was puce, and had a most irritating pattern that looked as if packs of cards had been thrown on it by some untidy person. There was one picture above the bed and after Beatrice had studied it for a long time and made nothing of it, she decided that it might be better turned upside down.

“Not a very restful picture for a bedroom,” she said to herself. “I’d rather have ‘Sleep sweetly in this quiet room’ embroidered with lavender!”

She couldn’t think at first what was wrong with the room, then she realised that it lacked the personal touch; it might have been a room in a furniture warehouse. There were no books, no flowers, nothing to make it look welcoming.

Well, she had her own belongings to put out, some of her favourite books, a few photographs, and her own pretty toilet things. They certainly made the room more human, but how awful her rose-pink satin dressing-gown (so much admired by Mrs. Lithgow) looked on the puce coverlet.

About twenty-five minutes past eight, when she was trying to make up her mind to go downstairs and find the drawing-room, there came a tap at the door, and before she could say “Come in” Lady Dobie entered.

“So here you are,” she said, kissing the girl. “I was desolated not to be in when you arrived, but Elaine and I simply had to put in an appearance at two parties. I hope Higgins looked after you properly? Had you a nice journey? How long is it since we met? You haven’t seen Elaine since you grew up, have you? Nor Stewart? A giant, simply a giant, six feet two! And oh, my dear, your poor mother! But we won’t speak of sad things; after all the world must go on. . . . Are you ready? Then, let’s go down—you must be famishing. I hope they gave you tea?”

To this rush of questions Beatrice merely returned a vague murmur, aware that no answer was required, for her step-sister flew from subject to subject like a busy sparrow. She was a small woman grown heavy, with golden hair and a bold taste in clothes. All the way downstairs she chattered, giving little staccato cries at intervals. “Is that my darling? Yes, it’s Missus! Missus is coming—my precious Pekie,” she explained over her shoulder to Beatrice.

Sir Samuel was waiting for them in the hall and Beatrice was startled to hear him greeted by his wife: “Down first, Big Boy? I’ve been making my peace with Beatrice about being out when she arrived and she’s forgiven me. Of course no one in London would ever dream of staying at home to welcome a guest, but I expect they still do that sort of thing in Glasgow.”

She glanced roguishly over her shoulder at her step-sister, repeating: “They do, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said Beatrice, “I’m afraid we’re as old-fashioned as that.”

Lady Dobie laughed again; it was a trick she had, a way of filling up gaps in conversation. If a silence fell she laughed and said “Well?” Thus had she earned for herself a reputation for high spirits.

They took their seats at a round table and Sir Samuel said:

“Is it quite impossible for Elaine to be in time? We put back dinner for her, for she couldn’t be ready by eight, but if there’s to be no improvement we’ll have it at seven-thirty. That’s when I like my dinner.” He turned to Beatrice, explaining that he very often dined at the House, but he had arranged to be at home this evening in honour of her arrival.

“That was very kind,” said Beatrice, with conviction, and her step-sister added, “Yes, isn’t he a sweet thing?”

Lady Dobie was responsible for most of the conversation.

“And had you a pleasant journey, Beatrice? But I think I asked you that before, and, anyway, what does it matter when it’s over? I hate railway travelling myself. Flying is what I love. So bird-like! No more Channel streams for me. Of course the air’s quite as sick-making, more so, if anything, but not quite so humiliating, somehow. . . . Ah, here’s Elaine! Come and kiss your step-aunt, dear thing, and tell her you’re sorry not to have been on the platform at Euston! In Glasgow they still meet their guests at the station.”

Beatrice saw a very tall, very slim girl, with a small tired face under a mop of dense black hair, and a vivid mouth. She seemed to advance reluctantly, and Beatrice, rising to meet her, wondered at the absorbed frown she wore, when, suddenly, a most charming smile broke over her face, and she bent and kissed her new relative.

“Well, Elaine,” said her father, as she took her place.

“Well, Papa,” said Elaine.

“You’re a quarter of an hour late. Did you know that?”

“I gathered it from the fact that you had reached the fish. But as you didn’t wait for me, does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. I like things done decently and in order, and to have to go into dinner raggedly, with one missing—well, I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Well, don’t let it happen again. I have so few evenings with my family.”

“I know. Busy public man. Don’t get pathetic, Papa.”

“And don’t you be pert, my girl.”

Lady Dobie laughed and cried: “Stop sparring, you two, or you’ll give Beatrice a bad impression of our happy home.” She turned to the new-comer, adding, “It’s worse when Stewart’s home from Oxford; Samuel’s down on him all the time. It comes of being well brought up. Nothing makes one feel so superior all through life. Take warning, you girls, and never marry a man who has been well brought up—it’s too wearing.” She kissed her hand to her husband, saying, “That’s too bad, Big Boy, isn’t it?”

Sir Samuel went on eating as if he hadn’t heard her. Beatrice stole a glance at Elaine’s unsmiling face, but it was inscrutable.

The meal proceeded; the servants walked softly round the table; Beatrice and her brother conversed a little about the Park Place house; Lady Dobie threw remarks about like shuttle-cocks.

Afterwards, in the drawing-room, which Beatrice thought interesting but unpleasing, they passed what seemed a very long evening.

Elaine settled herself beside a lamp with a workbox beside her and a gramophone playing at her ear; and worked feverishly at something, hardly raising her head. Lady Dobie fiddled with the wireless, turning knobs till she had almost five stations at once, then wearied of it, and went into the adjoining room to do some telephoning. Her voice could be heard laughing and ejaculating, and Beatrice reflected that there can be few sillier sounds than a person giggling into a telephone. Sir Samuel was peacefully asleep, with the evening paper on his knee.

Some books lay on a table, and Beatrice went to look at them. They were new novels from The Times Book Club by authors unknown to her. Picking out the most likely-looking she took it to a chair near a light, remembering a remark of Mrs. Lithgow’s—“You can always bury Beatrice in a book.”

What would they be doing now, the Lithgows? Peggy, she remembered, was going out with her Harry. The couple at home would be peacefully reading, talking a little, listening to the news, perhaps—such an evening as she and her mother had delighted to spend. How quickly the hours had gone! To-night time seemed to stand still, but that was the result of being in new surroundings. But anyway the worst was over, the first plunge taken.

She found that she liked her step-brother better in his own home than in Glasgow, and found him rather pathetic. Lady Dobie, though odd, doubtless meant to be kind. Elaine interested her; she seemed so withdrawn. What a curiously sad little face it was—but what a charming smile! How did she come to be the daughter of Samuel and Betha Dobie? Elaine, the lily-maid. The name on most girls would have been ridiculous, but it suited her. What was she making so diligently, surrounded with odds and ends of old finery, tinsel and sham emeralds, ermine and rose velvet?

Elaine, looking up for a second, caught her guest’s eyes fixed on her, and turned off the gramophone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have asked if you minded this noise. I rather like it myself. . . . I’m making things for some tableaux—that’s the picture,” she pitched it across to Beatrice who caught and studied it.

“You see,” said Elaine, “the striped muslin and the scarf? That’s the one I’ve to be, but I’m helping with the others as well. People are so lazy.”

“You like to make things?” Beatrice asked.

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t do it.”

“I wonder,” said Beatrice diffidently, “if I could help. I’m not much good, I’m afraid, but——”

“Oh, don’t trouble, Higgins does all the long seams. I like to do the fiddling bits that take time.” She glanced round the room, at her sleeping father, at the open door through which issued sounds of her mother on the telephone, and remarked:

“This is pretty deadly for you. As a family we make wretched home-keepers. My father always sleeps if he’s in for an evening—bored with our society. My mother doesn’t know what to do with herself and flies to the telephone for distraction. I don’t know how other families manage, but we don’t seem able to stand each other undiluted.”

Beatrice laughed. “Then it’s a good thing you live in the midst of distractions. I don’t suppose you are ever much alone?”

“Not if mother can help it. Father issued orders—he doesn’t often do it, but when he does it’s as well to obey—that we were to be in to-night, and alone, in order to welcome you. I pointed out that it was a poor sort of welcome, that we were at our worst en familie, that one or two well-chosen acquaintances would make things easier for you as well as for us, but father knew best—and this is the result.”

“I see nothing wrong with it,” said Beatrice. “Your father’s having a rest; you are getting some work done; your mother’s amusing herself; I am sitting in a comfortable chair with a book that is—quite fairly interesting.”

“What is it? Oh, that. It’s like a plum-pudding, so full of rich ingredients you get a surfeit after a little. I’ve one upstairs you might like. At least—d’you care for history?”

Lady Dobie’s voice came shrilly from the boudoir: “Elaine, is it Tuesday we dine with the Bartletts? You made the arrangement; I haven’t it in my book.”

“Yes, Tuesday.”

“Is Wednesday free? Can we dine with Lady Talbert?”

“I can’t. I’m dining with Susan and going on to something.”

Another talk on the telephone and then Lady Dobie emerged.

“Do forgive me, Beatrice; this is boring for you, but arrangements have got to be made. I’ve asked the Vivians here on Thursday. Is that all right, Elaine? . . . Think of some people to meet them.”

“The Prestons,” Elaine suggested.

“We don’t owe them.”

“Don’t we? What a nuisance. They’re about the only amusing people we know. What about the Cozens?”

“I might try them,” said Lady Dobie, “but they’re always about three deep.”

Elaine pondered, and said: “Joyce and Philip might come. They’re always glad of a meal—and they work for it. Joyce can talk to anyone, so can Phil when he likes; and they’re both decorative.”

“Yes,” Lady Dobie agreed, “I may have to fall back on them, but I think I’ll try the Laceys first. Oh, I know they’re dull, and Lord Lacey’s a perfect nuisance with his diet, but they’re the kind of people the Vivians like. And I might try the Stamfords, though they always seem to be engaged when I ask them.”

“It’ll be deadly,” said Elaine gloomily.

“Oh, I know, but they’ll all be dull together and not notice it.”

Lady Dobie returned to the telephone, inviting Beatrice to accompany her.

“This is my den,” she said, introducing the girl to the most littered room she had ever seen. “It’s a little crowded at present. You see Elaine turned practically everything out of the drawing-room when it was done up, and these are the things I simply couldn’t part with. We’re not allowed to be sentimentalists in these days, but I confess I cling to my old things. When I can find time I mean to get everything arranged. . . .” She waved her hand vaguely. “These pictures hung up and photographs and ornaments disposed of. . . . Just look at my bureau! Piled!”

“Have you a secretary?” Beatrice asked.

“Not a full-time one; three days a week. Such a competent creature. I can leave everything to her. She knows my style so well that I can trust her to answer all but my most intimate letters. And, really now I hardly ever write an intimate letter; there’s no time for them. The telephone is so much more convenient. And intimate friends are out of fashion, too; we call each other pet names and dear and darling each other, but it doesn’t amount to much. I sometimes wish——”

But what Lady Dobie wished Beatrice was not to know for she had again taken up the receiver.

Beatrice amused herself looking at the contents of the room, and wondering how any housemaid ever coped with the dusting of it. There were prints stacked against the wall, cabinets of china, tables crowded with silver, piles of photographs, many of them in heavy silver frames. It was amusing to find Elaine as a self-conscious schoolgirl photographed with her brother.

By eleven o’clock, Lady Dobie, exhausted but satisfied, announced that she would go to bed.

“A night in,” she said, “is such a luxury, and I feel I’ve made good use of it. Such luck getting on to so many people; everybody seemed to be having a night in! I’ve got next week practically filled up, and the next again. I expect you want to go to bed too, Beatrice, after your journey. Don’t get up to breakfast. I seldom do, and be sure and ask for anything you want. Yes, well, good-night.”

When Beatrice found herself back in the room which already seemed to her a haven of refuge, she started to undress briskly, determined to get out of the habit of breaking down and crying when she got away from people. In bed perhaps, but to the world she must keep a brave face.

A tap came to the door, a genteel tap. “Higgins!” thought Beatrice, and when she said, “Come in,” Higgins appeared, her spectacles shining benevolently, in one hand a tray with a tea-pot and a cup, and under the other arm a small white kitten.

“I wondered, Miss, if you’d care to have anything to drink—China tea, or Horlick, or Ovaltine? Some ladies sleep better after a hot drink.”

Beatrice, not liking to repulse a kind thought, decided on the tea, which was there, and exclaimed in delight at the sight of the kitten.

“Yes, Miss; I thought it’d cheer you. There’s something so homely about a kitten, especially in a strange house. Kittens are the same all the world over.”

“He’s purring,” said Beatrice. “Hear! He’s quite happy with me. What’s his name?”

“Well, Miss,” Higgins cleared her throat and blushed a little, as if not certain that she was being quite delicate, “we’re not quite certain downstairs of his sex (if you’ll excuse me mentioning it), so we’ve christened him ‘Impudence,’ which is suitable to either as you might say. He’s the kitchen kitten, quite a common little thing; but he’s got a sweet face; it’s unlucky him being white, for the coal-cellar’s his favourite playground. . . . But he’s clean to-night, is Impudence, for before I brought him up I did him all over with cloth ball.”