Part 33 (2/2)

”Why no, I won't,” he answered with a liveliness that deepened the knitting lady's regret on behalf of his wife. ”When I run away you bet it won't be with an idea.”

And he chuckled. He was quite rosy in the face, and chuckled; he whom she knew only as a quiet man with no chuckle in him. And wasn't what he had just said very like what the French call a _double entendre?_ She hadn't a husband herself, but if she had she would wish him to be at least as quiet when away from her as when with her, and at least as free from _double entendres_. At least. Really more. ”H'm, h'm, h'm,” she said, clicking her needles and looking first at the twins and then at the old gentleman.

”Do you mean to say you crossed the Atlantic quite alone, you two?” she asked, in order to prevent his continuing on these remarkable and unusual lines of _badinage_.

”Quite,” said Anna-Felicitas.

”That is to say, we had Mr. Twist of course,” said Anna-Rose.

”Once we had got him,” amended Anna-Felicitas.

”Yes, yes,” said the knitting lady, ”so you say. H'm, h'm, h'm. Once you had got him. I don't quite--”

”Well, I call you a pair of fine high-spirited girls,” said the old gentleman heartily, interrupting in his turn, ”and all I can say is I wish I had been on that boat.”

”Here's Mrs. Ridding,” said the knitting lady quickly, relief in her voice; whereupon he suddenly grew quiet. ”My, Mrs. Ridding,” she added when the lady drew within speaking distance, ”you do look as though you needed a rest.”

Mrs. Ridding, the wife of the old gentleman, Mr. Ridding, had been approaching slowly for some time from behind. She had been out on the verandah since lunch, trying to recover from it. That was the one drawback to meals, she considered, that they required so much recovering from; and the nicer they were the longer it took. The meals at the Cosmopolitan were particularly nice, and really all one's time was taken up getting over them.

She was a lady whose figure seemed to be all meals. The old gentleman had married her in her youth, when she hadn't had time to have had so many. He and she were then the same age, and unfortunately hadn't gone on being the same age since. It had wrecked his life this inability of his wife to stay as young and new as himself. He wanted a young wife, and the older he got in years--his heart very awkwardly retained its early freshness--the younger he wanted her; and, instead, the older he got the older his wife got too. Also the less new. The old gentleman felt the whole thing was a dreadful mistake. Why should he have to be married to this old lady? Never in his life had he wanted to marry old ladies; and he thought it very hard that at an age when he most appreciated bright youth he should be forced to spend his precious years, his crowning years when his mind had attained wisdom while his heart retained freshness, stranded with an old lady of costly habits and inordinate bulk just because years ago he had fallen in love with a chance pretty girl.

He struggled politely out of his chair on seeing her. The twins, impressed by such venerable abundance, got up too.

”Albert, if you try to move too quick you'll crick your back again,”

said Mrs. Ridding in a monotonous voice, letting herself down carefully and a little breathlessly on to the edge of a chair that didn't rock, and fanning herself with a small fan she carried on the end of a ma.s.sive gold chain. Her fatigued eyes explored the twins while she spoke.

”I can't get Mr. Ridding to remember that we're neither of us as young as we were,” she went on, addressing the knitting lady but with her eyes continuing to explore the twins.

They naturally thought she was speaking to them, and Anna-Felicitas said politely, ”Really?” and Anna-Rose, feeling she too ought to make some comment, said, ”Isn't that very unusual?”

Aunt Alice always said, ”Isn't that very unusual?” when she didn't know what else to say, and it worked beautifully, because then the other person launched into affirmations or denials with the reasons for them, and was quite happy.

But Mrs. Ridding only stared at the twins heavily and in silence.

”Because,” explained Anna-Rose, who thought the old lady didn't quite follow, ”n.o.body ever is. So that it must be difficult not to remember it.”

Mr. Ridding too was silent, but that was because of his wife. It was quite untrue to say that he forgot, seeing that she was constantly reminding him. ”Old stranger,” he thought resentfully, as he carefully arranged a cus.h.i.+on behind her back. He didn't like her back. Why should he have to pay bills for putting expensive clothes on it? He didn't want to. It was all a dreadful mistake.

”You're the Twinkler girls,” said the old lady abruptly.

They made polite gestures of agreement.

The knitting lady knitted vigorously, sitting up very straight and saying nothing, with a look on her face of disclaiming every responsibility.

”Where does your family come from?” was the next question.

This was unexpected. The twins had no desire to talk of Pomerania. They hadn't wanted to talk about Pomerania once since the war began; and they felt very distinctly in their bones that America, though she was a neutral, didn't like Germany any more than the belligerents did. It had been their intention to arrange together the line they would take if asked questions of this sort, but life had been so full and so exciting since their arrival that they had forgotten to.

Anna-Rose found herself unable to say anything at all. Anna-Felicitas, therefore, observing that Christopher was unnerved, plunged in.

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