The High Valley. Anne Mather
a slightly placatory smile and Ruth seemed to relent, for she tucked her arm into Morgana's and said: “Aren't there some simply ghastly gowns being worn? Have you seen that enormous woman in a kind of chiffon bell-tent in that awful shade of cyclamen?”
Morgana squeezed Ruth's arm. “That's rather unkind,” she said teasingly. “No doubt the dress is at least worth a dozen times the price of this.” She glanced down at her own gown, a simple affair of dark blue crěpe, with a long straight skirt below a swathed bodice, which nevertheless was the ideal foil for her pale hair.
Ruth eyed her rather enviously. “You must know the cheapest clothes look elegant on you,” she retorted, which Morgana thought was a kind of back-handed compliment, but refrained from saying so. Ruth had always said exactly what she thought and if what she said sometimes hurt her listener it was usually unintentional.
Ruth's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, were engaged in conversation with an elderly man and another woman who was apparently his wife, and Ruth said in an undertone to Morgana that he was one of the secretaries at the Embassy. “These affairs are always terribly formal,” she complained, glancing round at the guests. “Everyone seems to spend their time discussing politics or business of one kind or another, and I'm sure these receptions are used as an excuse to get all the men together.” She sighed resignedly.
“It is very exciting though, isn't it?” said Morgana, now recovered from her fright of finding herself abandoned. “I mean – do you attend a lot of functions like this?”
Ruth gave her a bored look. “Oh, lord, yes,” she exclaimed. “There's always some kind of social gathering going on in diplomatic circles. You've only been here three days, Morgana, but you'll soon get used to it.”
Morgana smiled. “I imagine by the time I get used to this I shall be leaving Brazil,” she remarked. “After all, I promised my father I'd join him in two weeks.”
Ruth lifted her shoulders. “Yes, that's a pity. Still, I'm only glad you could come at all. After all, had your father not been invited on this lecture tour of California, I doubt whether he would have allowed you to come so far alone.”
Morgana nodded. “That's true. Since my mother died he's felt rather a strong responsibility where I am concerned. That's really how I came to attend Brackenbury. I doubt very much whether, in the normal course of events, my parents would have been able to afford a boarding school for me.”
Ruth raised her eyebrows. “And then we never should have met, which would have been a pity,” she commented sardonically. “Anyway, never mind, you're here now, and you can't imagine how wonderful it is having someone to talk to. There aren't many people of my age in our diplomatic circles, and sometimes I get positively depressed thinking how long Daddy will be here on his mission. You don't know how I envy you your life in England, near London and so on. This is practically uncivilised by comparison.”
Morgana raised her dark eyebrows, and helped herself to two cocktails from a tray held by a passing waiter. Handing one to Ruth, she said: “I don't suppose the Brazilians would care to hear your description of their cultural capital, Ruth. Besides, I think Rio is a marvellous place. You'd certainly miss the sun and the beaches if you came back to England. And, you don't really want to do that. As for preferring my life – well – we don't lead a particularly exciting existence. Oh, now and then we go up to town to a concert or to the theatre, and occasionally there's a local gathering my father wants to attend. But we don't spend our time going from one social function to another as you and your parents seem to do. Nor do I find London very inspiring. I prefer Friars Warren every time.”
Ruth nodded, sipping her cocktail reminiscently. “I remember Friars Warren quite well,” she smiled. “I did enjoy my visits there, Morgana. Your father was so kind to me. I remember on speech days and prizegivings, when my parents couldn't attend, he always made me feel part of your family. I thought he was marvellous. He's so young.”
Morgana chuckled. “He would like to hear you say so,” she remarked dryly. “He's forty-two, you know.”
“It was a pity your mother died as she did,” said Ruth, sighing. “Peritonitis always seems so unnecessary somehow. I mean, if the appendix is such a useless organ, why are we given one?”
Morgana shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, that was all a long time ago now and we were talking about you, not me. Surely you have some friends here.”
Ruth finished her cocktail. “Not many. As I said before there aren't many young people in diplomatic circles here and the older ones don't seem to have offspring of my age!”
Morgana glanced around. “But there are heaps of young people here tonight.”
Ruth raised her eyes in an expressive gesture. “Oh, yes, there are young people. But Daddy doesn't encourage me to get involved with South Americans!”
Morgana frowned. “Heavens, why?”
“He says they're a very volatile race of people, highly emotional and probably unstable, and quite frankly, darling, I can't see myself succumbing to Latin charms!”
Morgana regarded her friend with amazement. “So all your friends have to be British, is that it?”
“Not exactly. Europeans aren't so bad and North Americans are perfectly acceptable.”
Morgana shook her head. “Well, I think you're wasting a fabulous opportunity,” she exclaimed. “And quite honestly, my father wouldn't dream of trying to influence me when it came to choosing my friends.”
Ruth grimaced. “Oh, well, you know Daddy's awfully socially conscious. He can't help it, and Mother flaps so if I make a scene.”
Morgana turned away, her feet unconsciously moving in time to the rhythmic music that was issuing from the orchestra's dais. She could understand Ruth's problems, having met Mrs. Dennison, but she thought Mr. Dennison's reasoning was narrow and old-fashioned. Personally, she found the dark-skinned Brazilians a particularly attractive combination of their arrogant Portuguese ancestry and modern chivalry. But it was no business of hers and presently Ruth's parents concluded their conversation with the embassy official and rejoined their daughter and Morgana.
“Well, Morgana,” said Mr. Dennison jovially. ‘Are you enjoying yourself? We lost you as we came in, didn't we?”
Morgana smiled politely. “I'm afraid so,” she admitted. “It was all so unusual and exciting I didn't hear what you said. But I am enjoying myself. I didn't realise it would be such an impressive affair.”
Mr. Dennison nodded. “Oh, these affairs are usually well-attended. And particularly here, at the Monteraverdian Embassy. Right now there's trouble brewing in Monteraverde and quite honestly I think this reception is a deliberate attempt to show where the power lies.”
Morgana listened with real interest. The violent politics of these South American states never failed to fascinate her. “Do you mean there is likely to be a revolution?” she asked, excitement making her eyes sparkle.
Mr. Dennison chuckled. “I shouldn't think so,” he answered, dampeningly. “The presidente, Queras, is not a man to risk being overthrown.” He lowered his voice. “Even now, there are rumours of reprisals being taken against a handful of guerillas who were captured some weeks ago. At present they're in prison in Queranova, awaiting trial and sentence.”
“Queranova?” echoed Morgana, with interest. “That's a similar name to the president's, isn't it?”
Mrs. Dennison gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Of course. These revolutionaries always attempt immortalisation by naming highways and towns after themselves, and then the next government comes along and renames them all in their own image. It's juvenile!”
Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose it's life,” she remarked. “And such vagaries are not the sole prerogative of the South Americans. Isn't Kennedy Airport named after the late president of the United States?”
Mrs. Dennison bestowed a slightly impatient glance upon her. “That's