would get over to Scoatney and when I said we should have to think that out, he arranged to send the car for us. He is the kindest person
-though as we passed the barn I remembered how very far from kind he
was about Rose that day. Perhaps one ought never to count things one
overhears. Anyway, it was Simon who said I was consciously naive--Neil said I was a cute kid; it's not exactly the way I see myself, but it
was kindly meant.
As we walked back to the castle Father said how nice they all were,
then asked if we had dresses for the party. I had been worrying about this myself, but I said:
"Oh, Topaz will manage something."
"Could anything of Aunt Millicent's be altered his If not- damn it, there must be something we can sell--" He gave me a humble, appealing sort of look. I put my arm through his and said quickly:
"We'll be all right." He looked tentatively at Rose. She was smiling faintly to herself. I don't think she had heard a word we had said.
When we went in, Topaz was washing up the tea-things.
"Mortmain, you deserve a medal," she said.
"What for?" said Father.
"Oh, for talking to Mrs.
Cotton? I enjoyed it very much."
Topaz simply stared at him.
"I got used to the vitality of American women when I was over there,"
he explained.
"Do they all talk as much as that?" I asked.
"No, of course not. But she happens to belong to a type I frequently met--it goes to lectures. And entertains afterwards-sometimes they put one up for the night; they're extraordinarily hospitable." He sat on the kitchen table, swinging his legs, looking rather boyish.
"Amazing, their energy," he went on.
"They're perfectly capable of having three or four children, running a house, keeping abreast of art, literature and music-superficially of
course but, good lord, that's something--and holding down a job into
the bargain. Some of them get through two or three husbands as well,
just to avoid stagnation."
"I shouldn't think any husband could stay the course for more than a few years," said Topaz.
"I felt that myself at first--the barrage of talk left me utterly depleted. But after a time I got used to it.
They're rather like punch balls -you buffet them, they buffet you, and on the whole the result's most stimulating."
"Unless they knock you out altogether," said Topaz, drily.
"They have that effect occasionally," Father admitted.
"Quite a number of American men are remarkably silent."
"She seemed to know a lot about Jacob Wrestling," I said.
"She'd probably read it up before she came--they do that, and very civil of them. Curious how many of them are prematurely gray; most
becoming. And I must say it's a pleasure to see a woman so well
turned-out."
He began to hum abstractedly and went off to the gatehouse as if he had suddenly forgotten all about us. I could have slapped him for that
"well turned-out" remark, because Topaz was looking so particularly far from well turned-out. She was wearing her hand woven dress which is
first cousin to a sack and her lovely hair, being rather in need of a wash, was pushed into a torn old net.
"Perhaps he'd find it stimulating if I talked as much as that," she said.
"We shouldn't," I told her. Actually, I had thought Mrs. Cotton very stimulating myself, but had no intention of being so tactless as to say so.
"Topaz, will there be moths in his evening clothes his He can't have worn them since Aunt Millicent's parties."
But she said she had taken care of them.
"We'll have to get him some studs, though, because he sold his good ones. Oh, Cassandra, it's fantastic- a genius, a man American critics write essays on, and he hasn't a decent stud to his name."
I said many geniuses had lacked shirts to put the studs in; then we got talking about our own clothes for the party.
I am all right--my white, school Speech Day frock will pass for anyone as young as I am, Topaz says. And she can fix up one of her old
evening dresses for herself. Rose is the problem.
"There's not a thing of your aunt's I can use for her," said Topaz,
"and nothing of my own is suitable. She needs something frilly. As we'll never be able to stop her turning on the Early Victorian charm, we ought to accentuate it."
I could hear Rose playing the piano. I closed the kitchen door and
said: "What did you think of her manner today ?"
"At least it was quieter, though she was still making eyes. But, anyway, it doesn't matter now."
1 looked at her in astonishment and she went on:
"Simon Cotton's attracted--really attracted--couldn't you see?
Once that happens, a girl can be as silly as she likes--the man'll
probably think the silliness is fetching."
"Is Neil attracted, too ?"
"I doubt it," said Topaz.
"I've an idea that Neil sees through her -- I saw him give her a very shrewd look.
Oh, how are we going to dress her, Cassandra his There's a chance for her with Simon, really there isI know the signs."
I had a sudden picture of Simon's face, pale above the beard.
"But would you really like her to marry him, Topaz?" I asked.
"I'd like her to get the chance," said Topaz, firmly.
Miss Marcy arrived then with a book for Father. She told us the Vicar has been invited for the same night as we have she heard from his
housekeeper.
"Most people have only been asked to lunches or teas," she said.
"Dinner's ever so much more splendid."
We told her about the problem of Rose's dress.
"It should be pink," she said, "a crinoline effect-there's the very thing here in this week's Home Chat."
She dived into her satchel for it.
"Oh, dear, that would be perfect for her," sighed Topaz.
Miss Marcy blushed and blinked her eyes, then said:
"Could you make it, Mrs. Mortmain? If--if dear Rose allowed me to give her the material?"
"I'll allow you," said Topaz.
"I feel justified."
Miss Marcy shot her a quick glance and Topaz gave her the very faintest nod. I nearly laughed--they were so different, Miss Marcy like a rosy little bird and Topaz tall and pale, like a slightly dead goddess, but just that second they so much resembled each other in their absolute
lust to marry Rose off.
"Perhaps we could offer Miss Marcy something of Aunt Millicent's as a small return," I suggested. They went off to the dining-room where the clothes are spread out, while I stayed to get Stephen his tea--Topaz
had decided that those of us who'd had afternoon tea would have supper with cocoa, later.
Stephen was worried to hear I shall be wearing such an old dress at
Scoatney.
"Couldn't you have a new sash?" he asked.
"I've got some money saved."
I thanked him but said my blue Speech Day sash was as good as new.
"Then a ribbon for your hair, Miss Cassandra ?"
"Goodness, I haven't worn a hair-ribbon since I was a child," I told him.
"You used to have little bows on the ends of your plaits before you cut your hair," he said.
"They were pretty."
Then he asked how I liked the two Cottons, now I knew them better.
"Oh, I don't know Simon at all--he talked to Rose most of the time. But Neil's very nice."
"Would you call him handsome ?"
I said I hardly thought so--"Not really handsome--not the way you are, Stephen."
I spoke without thinking--we all of us take his good looks for granted; but he blushed so much that I wished I hadn't said it.
"You see, you have classical features," I explained, in a matter-of fact voice.
"It seems a waste when I'm not a gentleman."
He grinned--a little sarcastic sort of grin.
"Don't talk like that," I said quickly.
"Gentlemen are men who behave like gentlemen. And you certainly do."
He shook his head.
"You can only be a gentleman if you're born one, Miss Cassandra."
"Stephen, that's old-fashioned nonsense," I said.
"Really, it is.
And, by the way, will you please stop calling me "Miss" Cassandra."
He looked astonished. Then he said: "Yes, I see. It should be "Miss Mortmain" now you're grown up enough for dinner parties."
"It certainly shouldn't," I said.
"I mean you must call me Cassandra, without the "Miss." You're one of the family--it's absurd you should ever have called me "Miss." Who told you to ?"
"My Mother--she set a lot of store by it," he said.
"I remember the first day we came here. You and Miss Rose were
throwing a ball in the garden and I ran to the kitchen door thinking
I'd play, too.
Mother called me back and told me how you were young ladies, and I was never to play with you unless I was invited. And to call you "Miss,"
and never to presume. She had a hard job explaining what "presume"
meant."
"Oh, Stephen, how awful! And you'd be--how old ?"
"Seven, I think. You'd be six and Miss Rose nine. Thomas was only four, but she told me to call him "Master Thomas." Only he asked me not to, years ago."
"And I ought to have asked you years ago." I'd never given it a thought. His Mother had been in service for years before she married.
When she was left a widow she had to go back to it and board Stephen
out. I know she was very grateful when Mother let her bring him here, so perhaps that made her extra humble.
"Well, anyway, I've asked you now," I went on, "so will you please remember ?"
"Would I call Miss Rose just "Rose"?" he asked.
I wasn't sure how Rose would feel about it so I said: "Oh, why worry about Rose his This is between you and me."