The Messalina of the Suburbs. E. M. Delafield
"Too dead-alive."
"Well, these people that I'm telling you about, this Doctor and Mrs. Woolley, they're youngish married people, and most pleasant. Aren't they, Horace? And they've two sweet kiddies—a boy and a girl. Don't you think you'd like me to speak to Mrs. Woolley, now, dear?"
Elsie was not sure. She felt that Mrs. Williams was going too fast. "I don't know," she said ungraciously.
"She's right," said Mr. Williams. "We mustn't be in too great a hurry. Write to your friend Mrs. Woolley by all means, my dear, and let this young lady think it over, and have a talk with her mother and sister. She may not care to live away from home altogether."
"Horace is always so businesslike," said Mrs. Williams admiringly. "I expect he's right, dear. But you'd like me to write, just to see if there's any chance,now wouldn't you?"
"What should I have to do there?"
"Why, just help look after the kiddies. I'm sure you love children, now don't you?—and perhaps make a dainty cake or two for afternoon tea, if Mrs. Woolley's busy, or do a bit of sewing for her—and keep the doctor amused in the evening if she has to go up early."
It was the last item that decided Elsie. "I don't mind," she said in her usual formula of acceptance.
Mrs. Williams was delighted. "I'm going to write off this very evening," she exclaimed enthusiastically. "Horace and I have to go out now, but I shan't forget. It'll be a lovely chance for you, dear."
Elsie rather enjoyed telling her mother and Geraldine that evening that " Mrs. Williams was wild " to secure her services for a lady friend of hers, who had a lovely house at Hampstead.
"This Mrs. Woolley is delicate, and she wants a young lady to help her. Of course, there's a servant for the work of the house."
"If she's counting on you to help her, the same as you've helped you: poor mother since you left school, she's got a disappointment in store," said Mrs. Palmer grimly. "I don't know that I'd let you go, even if you get the chance."
In the end, Geraldine, who wanted the top bedroom to herself, and who thought that Elsie, and the problem of Elsie's behaviour, were occupying too much attention, persuaded Mrs. Palmer that it would never do to offend the Williamses.
"Besides," she argued, "it'll be one less to feed here, and we can easily move her bed into the second-floor back room and use it, if we want to put up an extra gentleman any time."
Mrs. Palmer gave in, contingent on a personal interview with Mrs. Woolley.
This was arranged through Mrs. Williams. She one day ushered into the dining-room of No. 15 a large, showily-dressed woman, who might have been any age between thirty-eight and forty-five.
Her rings, and her light, smart dress impressed Elsie, and her suggestion of paying twenty-five pounds a year for Elsie's services satisfied Mrs. Palmer.
"My hubby's a frightfully busy man," Mrs. Woolley remarked. "He isn't at home a great deal, but he likes me to do everything on the most liberal scale—always has done—and he said to me, ' Amy, you're not strong,' he said,' even if you have a high colour '—so many people are deceived by that, Mrs. Palmer—' and you've got to have help.
Someone who can be a bit of a companion to you when I'm out on my rounds or busy in the surgery, and who you can trust with Gladys and Sonnie.'"
"I'm sure Elsie would like to help you, Mrs. Woolley, and you'll find her to be trusted," Mrs. Palmer replied firmly. "I've always brought up my gurls to be useful, even if they are ladies."
"She looks young," said Mrs. Woolley critically.
"She'll put her hair up before she comes to you. It may be a mother's weakness, Mrs. Woolley, but I'm free to confess that Elsie's my baby, and I've let her keep her curls down perhaps longer than I should."
Elsie remained demure beneath what she perfectly recognised as a form of self-hypnotism, rather than conscious humbug, on the part of her mother.
There was at least no sentimentality in her leave-taking a week later.
"Good-bye, Elsie, and mind and not be up to any of your tricks, now. Mother'll expect you on Sunday next."
"Good-bye, Mother," said Elsie indifferently.
She had that morning washed her hair, which made it very soft and fluffy, and had pinned it up in half a dozen fat little sausages at the back of her head. She was preoccupied with her own appearance, and with the knowledge that the newly-revealed back of her neck was white and pretty. She wore a blue serge coat and skirt, a low cut blouse of very pale pink figured voile, black shoes and stockings, and a dashing little hat, round and brimless, with a big black bow that she had herself added to it on the previous night.
In the Tub railway, a man in the seat opposite to her stared at her very hard. Elsie looked away, but kept on turning her eyes furtively towards him, without moving her head. Every time that she did this, their eyes met.
The man was young, with bold eyes and a wide mouth. Presently he smiled at her.
Elsie immediately looked down at the toes of her new black shoes, moving them this way and that as though to catch the light reflected in their polish.
At Belsize Park Station she got out, carrying her suit-case.
As she passed the youth in the corner, she glanced at him again, then stepped out of the train and went up the platforn without looking behind her.
Although there was a crowd on the platform and in the lift, and although she never looked round, Elsie could tell that he was following her.
The feeling that this gave her, half fearful and half delighted, was an agreeable titilation to her vanity. She had experienced it before, just as she had often been followed in the street before, but it never lost its flavour. When she was in the street, she began to walk steadily along, gazing straight in front of her.
She heard steps on the pavement just behind her, and then the young man of the train accosted her, raising his hat as he spoke :
"Aren't you going to give me the pleasure of your acquaintance?" he suavely enquired.
His voice was very polite, and his eyes looked faintly amused.
"Oh!" Elsie cried in a startled tone. "I don't think I know you, do I?"
"All the more reason to begin now. Mayn't I carry that bag for you?"
He took it and they walked on together.
"Perhaps you can tell me where Mortimer Crescent is," Elsie said primly.
"It will be my proudest privilege to escort you there," he replied in mock bombastic tones.
It was a form of persiflage well known to Elsie, and she laughed in reply. "You are silly, aren't you?"
"Not at all. Now if you called me cheeky, perhaps . . ."
"I'll call you cheeky fast enough. A regular Cheeky Charlie, by the look of you!"
"I think I was born cheeky," he agreed complacently. "D'you know what first made me want to talk to you?"
"What?"
"That pink thing you've got on with all the ribbon showing through it."
He put out his hand and, with a familiar gesture, touched the .front of her blouse just below her collar-bone.
"You mustn't," said Elsie, startled.
"Why not?"
"I don't allow liberties."
"We'll have to settle what liberties are, miss. Come for a walk this evening and we can talk about it."
"Oh, I couldn't! I'm just going into a new job."
She purposely used the word " new," because she wanted him to think her experienced and grown-up.
"What can a kiddie like you do?"
"Why,