The Garden Party and Other Stories. Katherine Mansfield

her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.

      "Not in the least," she said lightly. "Why should I be?"

      Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.

      "No, I'm not coming any farther," said Beryl.

      "Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe her. "Come along! We'll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!"

      The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness beneath.

      "No, really, I don't want to," said Beryl.

      For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't be silly!"

      His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched her to him.

      "Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the hateful voice.

      But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free.

      "You are vile, vile," said she.

      "Then why in God's name did you come?" stammered Harry Kember.

      Nobody answered him.

      Chapter 1.XIII

      A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a dark dream. All was still.

      2. THE GARDEN PARTY

      And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels.

      Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.

      "Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

      "My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest."

      But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.