THE COLLECTED WORKS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
startled as never before on receiving notification that my services as a writer are required, and may even take me abroad.
Am unable to judge whether activities will permit of my continuing a diary but prefer to suppose that they will be of too important a nature.
Ask myself whether war, as term has hitherto been understood, can be going to begin at last. Reply, of sorts, supplied by Sir Auckland Geddes over the wireless.
Sir A. G. finds himself obliged to condemn the now general practice of running out into the street in order to view aircraft activities when engaged with the enemy overhead.
Can only hope that Hitler may come to hear of this remarkable reaction to his efforts, on the part of the British.
THE END
Zella Sees Herself (1915)
PROLOGUE
THE French window of the dining-room at Villetswood stood wide open, disclosing a glittering perspective of white cloth laden with silver and flowers and gilt candlesticks crowned by pink shades.
Gisèle de Kervoyou, aged seven, balanced herself on one foot upon the threshold of the window.
She was gazing eagerly at the beautiful, gleaming vista, repeated in the great mirror at the far end of the room. With a gesture that was essentially un-English, the child shrugged her shoulders together, stepped very daintily into the dining-room, and approached the table. Her dark grey eyes were narrowed together, her head thrown back as though to catch any possible sound, and she moved as gracefully and as soundlessly as a kitten.
With tiny dexterous fingers she abstracted some three or four chocolate bon-bons from as many little silver dessert-dishes, thrust one into her mouth, and the others into the diminutive pocket of her white frock. Then for the first time she looked guilty, flung a terrified glance round her, and fled noiselessly across the room and out into the garden again.
"Zella! aren't you coming ?"
"Yes, yes."
Zella ran across the terrace to the big oak-tree where her cousins, James and Muriel Lloyd-Evans, wore earnestly engaged in digging a passage through the earth to Australia
"Where have you been ?" Muriel inquired.
"On to the top terrace," said Zella glibly; "and I saw a big white horse, trampling on all the flowers."
"Where, where ?" shrieked Muriel, flinging down her spade. James, a quiet little boy who bore unmoved the reputation of being a prig, looked up inquiringly.
"It's gone now," said Zella. "Papa shot it."
"Shot it dead ?" said Muriel, awestruck.
"I don't believe it," remarked James, and resumed his digging.
Zella felt a wave of fury pass over her at this insult. It made her so angry to be disbelieved that she completely lost sight of the entire justification for James' attitude.
"It is true," she cried passionately; "I did see it!" And across her mental vision there passed a very distinct picture of a mammoth white horse destroying the geraniums with plunging hooves, and then suddenly stilled for ever by a gun-shot.
Muriel, who hated quarrels, said: "Don't be angry, Zella. Let's go on digging."
And the governess, who had followed the conversation with what attention she could spare from a novel, looked up and remarked, "James, you are not to tease your cousin," while inwardly thanking Providence that she was not responsible for the upbringing of that untruthful little half-foreign child, Zella de Kervoyou.
But Zella, who was hurt by a suspicion of her truthfulness as by nothing else, rushed away to sob and cry behind the laurel hedge, and wish that she was dead.
"Was it really an untruth?" Muriel asked with a horrified face as her cousin fled in tears.
"I am afraid so, dear," replied Miss Vincent with some asperity, thinking it worth while to improve the occasion. "Your little cousin is very young; when she grows older she will see how very naughty it is to tell stories."
"I don't believe Zella tells stories," muttered James,