such things--we always had several courses for dinner at Aunt
Millicent's -but I couldn't even recognize all the dishes. And it was no use trying to copy Neil because his table manners were quite strange to me. I fear he must have seen me staring at him once because he
said: "Mother thinks I ought to eat in the English way- she and Simon have gotten into it --but I'm darned if I will."
I asked him to explain the difference. It appears that in America it
is polite to cut up each mouthful, lay down the knife on your plate,
change your fork from the left to the right hand, load it, eat the
fork-full, change the fork back to your left hand, and pick up the
knife again-and you must take only one kind of food on the fork at a
time; never a nice comfortable podge of meat and vegetables together.
"But that takes so long," I said.
"No, it doesn't," said Neil.
"Anyway, it looks terrible to me the way you all hang on to your knives."
The idea of anything English people do looking terrible quite annoyed me, but I held my peace.
"Tell you another thing that's wrong over here," Neil went on, waving his fork slightly.
"Look at the way everything's being handed to your stepmother first.
Back home it'd be handed to Mother."
"Don't you care to be polite to the guest?" I said. Dear me, what a superior little horror I must have sounded.
"But it is polite--it's a lot more considerate, anyway. Because the hostess can always show you what to do with the food- if you turn out soup on your plate or take a whole one of anything-don't you see what I mean ?"
I saw very clearly and I did think it a wonderfully good idea.
"Well, perhaps I could even get used to changing my fork from hand to hand," I said, and had a go at it. I found it very difficult.
The Vicar was watching us across the table.
"When this house was built, people used daggers and their fingers," he said.
"And it'll probably last until the days when men dine off capsules."
"Fancy asking friends to come over for capsules," I said.
"Oh, the capsules will be taken in private," said Father.
"By that time, eating will have become unmentionable. Pictures of food will be considered rare and curious, and only collected by rude old
gentlemen."
Mrs. Fox-Cotton spoke to Neil then and he turned to talk to her;
so I got a chance to look round the table. Both Father and the Vicar
were listening to Mrs. Cotton; Aubrey Fox-Cotton was monopolizing
Topaz. For the moment, no one was talking to either Rose or Simon. I
saw him look at her. She gave him a glance through her eyelashes and
though I know what Topaz means about it being old fashioned, it was
certainly a most fetching glance-perhaps Rose has got into better
practice now. Anyway, I could see that Simon wasn't being put off by
it this time. He raised his glass and looked at her across it almost
as if he were drinking a toast to her. His eyes looked rather handsome above the glass and I suddenly had a hope that she could really fall in love with him, in spite of the beard. But heavens, I couldn't She
smiled--the faintest flicker of a smile nand then turned and spoke to the Vicar. I thought to myself: "She's learning"--be cause it would have been very obvious if she had looked at Simon any longer.
I had a queer sort of feeling, watching them all and listening;
perhaps it was due to what Father had been saying a few minutes before.
It suddenly seemed astonishing that people should meet especially to
eat together--because food goes into the mouth and talk comes out. And if you watch people eating and talking --really watch them- it is a
very peculiar sight: hands so busy, forks going up and down,
swallowings, words coming out between mouthfuls, jaws working like
mad. The more you look at a dinner party, the odder it seems- all the candlelit faces, hands with dishes coming over shoulders, the owners of the hands moving round quietly taking no part in the laughter and
conversation. I pulled my mind off the table and stared into the
dimness beyond, and then I gradually saw the servants as real people, watching us, whispering instructions to each other, exchanging
glances.
I noticed a girl from Godsend village and gave her a tiny wink--and
wished I hadn't, because she let out a little snort of laughter and
then looked in terror at the butler. The next minute my left ear heard something which made my blood run cold--an expression I have always
looked down on, but I really did get a cold shiver between my
shoulders:
Mrs. Cotton was asking Father how long it was since he had published
anything.
"A good twelve years," he said in the blank voice which our family accepts as the close of a conversation. It had no such effect on Mrs.
Cotton.
"You've thought it best to lie fallow," she said.
"How few writers have the wisdom to do that." Her tone was most understanding, almost reverent. Then she added briskly: "But it's been long enough, don't you think ?"
I saw Father's hand grip the table. For an awful second I thought he
was going to push his chair back and walk out--as he so often does at home if any of us annoy him. But he just said, very quietly:
"I've given up writing, Mrs. Cotton. And now let's talk of something interesting."
"But this is interesting," she said. I sneaked a look at her. She was very upright, all deep blue velvet and pearls-I don't think I ever saw a woman look so noticeably clean.
"And I warn you I'm quite unsnubbable, Mr. Mortmain. When a writer so potentially great as you keeps silent so long, it's somebody's duty to find out the reason. Automatically, one's first guess is drink, but that's obviously not your trouble. There must be some psychological--"
Just then Neil spoke to me.
"Quiet, a minute," I whispered, but I missed the rest of Mrs.
Cotton's speech. Father said:
"Good God, you can't say things like that to me at your own dinner table."
"Oh, I always employ shock tactics with men of genius," said Mrs.
Cotton.
"And one has to employ them in public or the men of genius bolt."
"I'm perfectly capable of bolting, in public or out," said Father-but I could tell he wasn't going to; there was an easy, amused tone in his
voice that I hadn't heard for years. He went on banteringly, "Tell me, are you unique or has the American club woman become more menacing
since my day?" It seemed to me a terribly rude thing to say, even in fun, but Mrs. Cotton didn't appear to mind in the least. She just
said smilingly, "I don't happen to be what you mean by a club woman.
And anyway, I think we must cure you of this habit of generalizing
about America on the strength of two short lecture tours." Serve Father right--he has always talked as if he had brought America home in his trouser pocket. Naturally I wanted to go on listening, but I saw
Mrs.
Cotton notice me; so I turned quickly to Neil.
"All right now," I said.
"What was it ?" he asked.
"Did you think you'd broken a tooth ?"
I laughed and told him what I had been listening to.
"You just wait," he said.
"She'll have him turning out master pieces eight hours a day- unless, of course, he goes for her with a cake-knife."
I stared at him in amazement. He went on:
"Oh, she had our attorney send us all the details of the case. Made me laugh a lot. But I guess she was a bit disappointed that it wasn't a
real attempt at murder."
"Can you understand how a ridiculous thing like that could put him off his work ?" I asked.
"Why, I don't even understand your Father's work when he was on it,"
said Neil.
"I'm just not literary."
After that, we talked of other things--I felt it would be polite to ask questions about America. He told me about his father's ranch in
California, where he had lived until he joined Mrs. Cotton and Simon.
(it is strange to realize how little he has had to do with them.) I
said it seemed very sad that the father had died before he could
inherit Scoatney Hall.
"He wouldn't have lived in it, anyway," said Neil.
"He'd never have settled down anywhere but in America--any more than I shall."
I almost began to say "But your brother's going to live here, isn't he?" but I stopped myself. Neil had sounded so cross that I felt it might be a sore subject. I asked him if he liked Rose's dress-mostly
to change the conversation.
He said: "Not very much, if you want the honest truth it too fussy for me. But she looks very pretty in it.
Knows it, too, doesn't she ?"
There was a twinkle in his eye which took off the rudeness. And I must admit that Rose was knowing it all over the place.
The most wonderful frozen pudding came round then and while Neil
helped himself, I let my left ear listen to Father and Mrs. Cotton
again. They seemed to be getting on splendidly, though it did sound a bit like a shouting match. I saw Topaz look across anxiously, then
look relieved: Father was chuckling.
"Oh, talk to the Vicar- give me a rest," he said.
"But I shall return to the attack," said Mrs.
Cotton. Her eyes were sparkling and she looked about twice as healthy as anyone normally does.
"Well, how are you enjoying your first grown-up dinner party ?"
Father asked me- it was the first word he had spoken to me throughout the meal but I could hardly blame him for that. He was rather flushed and somehow larger than usual--there was a touch of the magnificence I still remember about him from pre-cake-knife days.