Part 2 (2/2)

”That's very ingenious.”

”It's true.”

There was a silence. Denis finished his porridge and helped himself to bacon. For lack of anything better to say, and because Mr. Scogan's absurd phrase was for some reason running in his head, he turned to Jenny and asked:

”Do you consider yourself a femme superieure?” He had to repeat the question several times before Jenny got the hang of it.

”No,” she said, rather indignantly, when at last she heard what Denis was saying. ”Certainly not. Has anyone been suggesting that I am?”

”No,” said Denis. ”Mr. Scogan told Mary she was one.”

”Did he?” Jenny lowered her voice. ”Shall I tell you what I think of that man? I think he's slightly sinister.”

Having made this p.r.o.nouncement, she entered the ivory tower of her deafness and closed the door. Denis could not induce her to say anything more, could not induce her even to listen. She just smiled at him, smiled and occasionally nodded.

Denis went out on to the terrace to smoke his after-breakfast pipe and to read his morning paper. An hour later, when Anne came down, she found him still reading. By this time he had got to the Court Circular and the Forthcoming Weddings. He got up to meet her as she approached, a Hamadryad in white muslin, across the gra.s.s.

”Why, Denis,” she exclaimed, ”you look perfectly sweet in your white trousers.”

Denis was dreadfully taken aback. There was no possible retort. ”You speak as though I were a child in a new frock,” he said, with a show of irritation.

”But that's how I feel about you, Denis dear.”

”Then you oughtn't to.”

”But I can't help it. I'm so much older than you.”

”I like that,” he said. ”Four years older.”

”And if you do look perfectly sweet in your white trousers, why shouldn't I say so? And why did you put them on, if you didn't think you were going to look sweet in them?”

”Let's go into the garden,” said Denis. He was put out; the conversation had taken such a preposterous and unexpected turn. He had planned a very different opening, in which he was to lead off with, ”You look adorable this morning,” or something of the kind, and she was to answer, ”Do I?” and then there was to be a pregnant silence. And now she had got in first with the trousers. It was provoking; his pride was hurt.

That part of the garden that sloped down from the foot of the terrace to the pool had a beauty which did not depend on colour so much as on forms. It was as beautiful by moonlight as in the sun. The silver of water, the dark shapes of yew and ilex trees remained, at all hours and seasons, the dominant features of the scene. It was a landscape in black and white. For colour there was the flower-garden; it lay to one side of the pool, separated from it by a huge Babylonian wall of yews. You pa.s.sed through a tunnel in the hedge, you opened a wicket in a wall, and you found yourself, startlingly and suddenly, in the world of colour.

The July borders blazed and flared under the sun. Within its high brick walls the garden was like a great tank of warmth and perfume and colour.

Denis held open the little iron gate for his companion. ”It's like pa.s.sing from a cloister into an Oriental palace,” he said, and took a deep breath of the warm, flower-scented air. ”'In fragrant volleys they let fly...' How does it go?

”'Well shot, ye firemen! Oh how sweet And round your equal fires do meet; Whose shrill report no ear can tell, But echoes to the eye and smell...'”

”You have a bad habit of quoting,” said Anne. ”As I never know the context or author, I find it humiliating.”

Denis apologized. ”It's the fault of one's education. Things somehow seem more real and vivid when one can apply somebody else's ready-made phrase about them. And then there are lots of lovely names and words--Monophysite, Iamblichus, Pomponazzi; you bring them out triumphantly, and feel you've clinched the argument with the mere magical sound of them. That's what comes of the higher education.”

”You may regret your education,” said Anne; ”I'm ashamed of my lack of it. Look at those sunflowers! Aren't they magnificent?”

”Dark faces and golden crowns--they're kings of Ethiopia. And I like the way the t.i.ts cling to the flowers and pick out the seeds, while the other loutish birds, grubbing dirtily for their food, look up in envy from the ground. Do they look up in envy? That's the literary touch, I'm afraid. Education again. It always comes back to that.” He was silent.

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