The Provincial Lady Series. E. M. Delafield
but nebulous, outline of powerful Article for Time and Tide here suggests itself: Is Ruthlessness more Profitable than Repentance? Failing article—for which time at the moment is lacking, owing to departure of house-parlourmaid and necessity of learning "Wreck of the Hesperus" to recite at Village Concert—would this make suitable subject for Debate at Women's Institute? Feel doubtful as to whether our Vicar's wife would not think subject-matter trenching upon ground more properly belonging to our Vicar.)
Resign from Book of the Month Club, owing to wide and ever-increasing divergence of opinion between us as to merits or demerits of recently published fiction. Write them long and eloquent letter about this, but remember after it is posted that I still owe them twelve shillings and sixpence for Maurois's Byron.
March 13th.—Vicky and Mademoiselle leave, in order to pay visit to Aunt Gertrude. Mademoiselle becomes sentimental and says, "Ah, déjà je languis pour notre retour!" As total extent of her absence at this stage is about half-an-hour, and they have three weeks before them, feel that this is not a spirit to be encouraged. See them into the train, when Mademoiselle at once produces eau-de-Cologne in case either, or both, should be ill, and come home again. House resembles the tomb, and the gardener says that Miss Vicky seems such a little bit of a thing to be sent right away like that, and it isn't as if she could write and tell me how she was getting on, either.
Go to bed feeling like a murderess.
March 14th.—Rather inadequate Postal Order arrives, together with white tennis coat trimmed with rabbit, which—says accompanying letter—is returned as being unsaleable. Should like to know why. Toy with idea of writing to Time and Tide's Editor, enquiring if every advertisement is subjected to personal scrutiny before insertion, but decide that this, in the event of a reply, might involve me in difficult explanations and diminish my prestige as occasional recipient of First Prize (divided) in Weekly Competition.
(Mem.: See whether tennis coat could be dyed and transformed into evening cloak.)
Am unfortunately found at home by callers, Mr. and Mrs. White, who are starting a Chicken-farm in the neighbourhood, and appear to have got married on the expectation of making a fortune out of it. We talk about chickens, houses, scenery, and the train-service between here and London. I ask if they play tennis, and politely suggest that both are probably brilliant performers. Mr. White staggers me by replying Oh, he wouldn't say that, exactly—meaning that he would, if it didn't seem like boasting. He enquires about Tournaments. Mrs. White is reminded of Tournaments in which they have, or have not, come out victors in the past. They refer to their handicap. Resolve never to ask the Whites to play on our extremely inferior court.
Later on talk about politicians. Mr. White says that in his opinion Lloyd George is clever, but Nothing Else. That's all, says Mr. White impressively. Just Clever. I refer to Coalition Government and Insurance Act, but Mr. White repeats firmly that both were brought about by mere Cleverness. He adds that Baldwin is a thoroughly honest man, and that Ramsay MacDonald is weak. Mrs. White supports him with an irrelevant statement to the effect that the Labour Party must be hand in glove with Russia, otherwise how would the Bolshevists dare to go on like that?
She also suddenly adds that Prohibition and the Jews and Everything are really the thin end of the wedge, don't I think so? I say Yes, I do, as the quickest way of ending the conversation, and ask if she plays the piano, to which she says No, but the Ukelele a little bit, and we talk about local shops and the delivery of a Sunday paper.
(N.B. Amenities of conversation afford very, very curious study sometimes, especially in the country.)
The Whites take their departure. Hope never to set eyes on either of them again.
March 15th.—Robert discovers absence of mackintosh dating from 1907. Says that he would "rather have lost a hundred pounds"—which I know to be untrue. Unsuccessful evening follows. Cannot make up my mind whether to tell him at once about shooting-coat and sweater, and get it all over in one, or leave him to find out for himself when present painful impression has had time to die away. Ray of light pierces impenetrable gloom when Robert is driven to enquire if I can tell him "a word for calmer in seven letters" and I, after some thought, suggest "serener"—which he says will do, and returns to Times Crossword Puzzle. Later he asks for famous mountain in Greece, but does not accept my too-hasty offer of Mount Atlas, nor listen to interesting explanation as to associative links between Greece, Hercules, and Atlas, which I proffer. After going into it at some length, I perceive that Robert is not attending, and retire to bed.
March 17th.—Travel up to London with Barbara Blenkinsop—(wearing new tweed)—who says she is going to spend a fortnight with old school-friend at Streatham and is looking forward to the Italian Art Exhibition. I say that I am, too, and ask after Mrs. B. Barbara says that she is Wonderful. We discuss Girl Guides, and exchange surmises as to reason why Mrs. T. at the Post Office is no longer on speaking terms with Mrs. L. at the shop. Later on, conversation takes a more intellectual turn, and we agree that the Parish Magazine needs Brightening Up. I suggest a crossword puzzle, and Barbara says a Children's Page. Paddington is reached just as we decide that it would be hopeless to try and get a contribution to the Parish Magazine from anyone really good, such as Shaw, Bennett, or Galsworthy.
I ask Barbara to tea at my club one day next week, she accepts, and we part.
Met by Rose, who has a new hat, and says that no one is wearing a brim, which discourages me—partly because I have nothing but brims, and partly because I know only too well that I shall look my worst without one. Confide this fear to Rose, who says, Why not go to well-known Beauty Culture Establishment, and have course of treatment there? I look at myself in the glass, see much room for improvement, and agree to this, only stipulating that all shall be kept secret as the grave, as could not tolerate the idea of Lady B.'s comments, should she ever come to hear of it. Make appointment by telephone. In the meantime, says Rose, what about the Italian Art Exhibition? She herself has already been four times. I say Yes, yes—it is one of the things I have come to London for, but should prefer to go earlier in the day. Then, says Rose, the first thing tomorrow morning? To this I reply, with every sign of reluctance, that to-morrow morning must be devoted to Registry Offices. Well, says Rose, when shall we go? Let us, I urge, settle that a little later on, when I know better what I am doing. Can see that Rose thinks anything but well of me, but she is too tactful to say more. Quite realise that I shall have to go to the Italian Exhibition sooner or later, and am indeed quite determined to do so, but feel certain that I shall understand nothing about it when I do get there, and shall find myself involved in terrible difficulties when asked my impressions afterwards.
Rose's cook, as usual, produces marvellous dinner, and I remember with shame and compassion that Robert, at home, is sitting down to minced beef and macaroni cheese, followed by walnuts.
Rose says that she is taking me to dinner to-morrow, with distinguished woman-writer who has marvellous collection of Jade, to meet still more distinguished Professor (female) and others. Decide to go and buy an evening dress to-morrow, regardless of overdraft.
March 18th.—Very successful day, although Italian Art Exhibition still unvisited. (Mem.: Positively must go there before meeting Barbara for tea at my club.)
Visit several Registry Offices, and am told that maids do not like the country—which I know already—and that the wages I am offering are low. Come away from there depressed, and decide to cheer myself up by purchasing evening dress—which I cannot afford—with present-day waist—which does not suit me. Select the Brompton Road, as likely to contain what I want, and crawl up it, scrutinising windows. Come face-to-face with Barbara Blenkinsop, who says, How extraordinary we should meet here, to which I reply that that is so often the way, when one comes to London. She is, she tells me, just on her way to the Italian Exhibition . . . I at once say Good-bye,