Part 7 (1/2)

”They are ridiculous cases, because you know what your choice would be, and don't want to confess it,” said Grantie. ”I don't press for an answer, but it was your own fault that I asked the question since you talked nonsense about devotion which I can't understand. I merely inquired into its nature. That's all; it is finished.”

”Grantie, I hate you,” said Dodo. ”Why don't you make the best of other people, as I always do?”

”Simply because they insist on making the worst of themselves, and it would be rude to disagree with them,” said Grantie.

”You are a sour old maid,” said Dodo with some heat.

Miss Grantham spoke to the terrace generally in a detached manner.

”'Why don't you make the best of people as I always do?'” she quoted.

Dodo laughed.

”Oh yes, you scored,” she said. ”But to be serious a moment instead of pea-shooting each other. I allow you have hit me on the nose several times with devilish accuracy and hard, wet peas. What fun it used to be----”

”To be serious a moment----” said Grantie.

”That's another pea; don't do it. To be serious, as I said before, do you really suppose that you can alter your character? It always seems to me the one unchangeable thing. A thoroughly selfish woman can make herself behave unselfishly, just as a greedy person can starve himself, but they remain just as selfish and greedy as before. Oh, Grantie, I've got a dreadful nature, and the only thing to be done is to blow soap-bubbles all over it, so that it appears to be iridescent.”

”You don't really believe that about yourself,” said Grantie.

Dodo groaned.

”I know I don't,” she said. ”I know nothing about myself. When David thinks I am adorable, I quite agree with him, and when you tell me that I am a worm, I look wildly round for the thrush that is going to eat me.

There's one on the lawn now; it may be that one. Shoo! you nasty bird!”

she cried.

The thrush scudded off into the bushes at the sound of Dodo's shrill voice and clapped hands.

”So it isn't that one. What a relief!” said Dodo. ”But what's to be done?”

”Knit!” said Miss Grantham firmly. ”Sew! Get out of yourself! Play the piano!”

”But I should only think how beautifully I was playing it,” said Dodo.

”All you say is true, Grantie; that's the beastly thing about you, but it's all no use. Listen at that fortunate Cherman snoring! He isn't thinking about himself; he's not thinking about anything at all. I wish I was eighty. It's better to be in a bath-chair than in a cage. We are all in cages, at least I am, and you are a raven in a cage. You croak, and you peck me if I come near you. Iron bars do make a cage, whatever Lovelace thought about it, if the iron bars are your own temperament. I can't get out, and isn't it awful?”

Dodo gave a great sigh, and lit a cigarette.

”I shall forget all about it in two minutes,” she said, ”and that's the really hopeless thing about me. I feel deeply for a few seconds, and then I feel equally deeply about something perfectly different. Just now I long for something to happen which will break the bars or open my cage. And yet it is such a comfortable one. That's the matter with all of us, me with my egotism, and you with your school-feasts. We're all far too cosy and prosperous. 'See saw, Margery Daw!' We're all swinging in an apple-tree. The rope has got to break, and we must all go b.u.mp, if we hope for salvation. It must be something big, something dreadful. If Jack lost all his property, and went utterly bankrupt, that wouldn't help me. I should get an old wheezy barrel-organ and parade the streets and squares in London, singing in a cracked voice, and have a lovely time. Or I should get a situation at a tea-shop, or I should chaperon climbers, and it would all amuse me, and I shouldn't change one atom.

Really I don't think anything would do me any good except the Day of Judgment.... Thank G.o.d, here's Hughie; I am getting rather insane.

Hughie, what have you been doing, and if so, are you happy, and if so, how dare you be happy? Why are you happy?”

Hughie considered these questions, and ticked the answers off on his fingers.

”I've been doing nothing,” he said, ”and I dare to be happy. I don't know why. But again, why shouldn't I be?”

”But why should you? What have you done to deserve it? Catechise him, Grantie, because it's Sunday afternoon, and make him confess that he's got a horrid nature, and ought to be miserable.”

”Go ahead,” said Hugh. ”But it's no use trying to make me confess that I've got a horrid nature. I haven't. I've got rather a nice one.”