“Ah, hotels are so very trying,” said Mother, and she drooped sympathetically at the thought of a lonely man in an hotel... “You are alone here?” she asked, gently, just in case... one never knew... it was better to be on the safe, the tactful side.
But her fears were groundless.
“Oh, yes, I’m alone,” cried Mr. Prodger, more heartily than he had spoken yet, and he took a speck of thread off his immaculate trouser leg. Something in his voice puzzled Milly. What was it?
“Still, the scenery is so very beautiful,” said Mother, “that one really does not feel the need of friends. I was only saying to my daughter yesterday I could live here for years without going outside the garden gate. It is all so beautiful.”
“Is that so?” said Mr. Prodger, soberly. He added, “You have a very charming villa.” And he glanced round the salon. “Is all this antique furniture genuine, may I ask?”
“I believe so,” said Mother. “I was certainly given to understand it was. Yes, we love our villa. But of course it is very large for two, that is to say three, ladies. My companion, Miss Anderson, is with us. But unfortunately she is a Roman Catholic, and so she is out most of the time.”
Mr. Prodger bowed as one who agreed that Roman Catholics were very seldom in.
“But I am so fond of space,” continued Mother, “and so is my daughter. We both love large rooms and plenty of them — don’t we, Milly?”
This time Mr. Prodger looked at Milly quite cordially and remarked, “Yes, young people like plenty of room to run about.”
He got up, put one hand behind his back, slapped the other upon it and went over to the balcony.
“You’ve a view of the sea from here,” he observed.
The ladies might well have noticed it; the whole Mediterranean swung before the windows.
“We are so fond of the sea,” said Mother, getting up, too.
Mr. Prodger looked towards Milly. “Do you see those yachts, Miss Fawcett?”
Milly saw them.
“Do you happen to know what they’re doing?” asked Mr. Prodger.
What they were doing? What a funny question! Milly stared and bit her lip.
“They’re racing!” said Mr. Prodger, and this time he did actually smile at her.
“Oh, yes, of course,” stammered Milly. “Of course they are.” She knew that.
“Well, they’re not always at it,” said Mr. Prodger, good-humouredly. And he turned to Mother and began to take a ceremonious farewell.
“I wonder,” hesitated Mother, folding her little hands and eyeing him, “if you would care to lunch with us — if you would not be too dull with two ladies. We should be so very pleased.”
Mr. Prodger became intensely serious again. He seemed to brace himself to meet the luncheon invitation. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Fawcett. I should be delighted.”
“That will be very nice,” said Mother, warmly. “Let me see. To-day is Monday — isn’t it, Milly? Would Wednesday suit you?”
“Mr. Prodger replied,” It would suit me excellently to lunch with you on Wednesday, Mrs. Fawcett. At mee-dee, I presume, as they call it here.”
“Oh, no! We keep our English times. At one o’clock,” said Mother.
And that being arranged, Mr. Prodger became more and more ceremonious and bowed himself out of the room.
Mother rang for Marie to look after him, and a moment later the big, glass hall-door shut.
“Well!” said Mother. She was all smiles. Little smiles like butterflies, alighting on her lips and gone again. “That was an adventure, Milly, wasn’t it, dear? And I thought he was such a very charming man, didn’t you?”
Milly made a little face at Mother and rubbed her eye.
“Of course you did. You must have, dear. And his appearance was so satisfactory — wasn’t it?” Mother was obviously enraptured. “I mean he looked so very well kept. Did you notice his hands? Every nail shone like a diamond. I must say I do like to see...”
She broke off. She came over to Milly and patted her big collar straight.
“You do think it was right of me to ask him to lunch — don’t you, dear?” said Mother pathetically.
Mother made her feel so big, so tall. But she was tall. She could pick Mother up in her arms. Sometimes, rare moods came when she did. Swooped on Mother who squeaked like a mouse and even kicked. But not lately. Very seldom now...
“It was so strange,” said Mother. There was the still, bright, exalted glance again. “I suddenly seemed to hear Father say to me ‘Ask him to lunch.’ And then there was some — warning... I think it was about the wine. But that I didn’t catch — very unfortunately,” she added, mournfully. She put her hand on her breast; she bowed her head. “Father is still so near,” she whispered.
Milly looked out of the window. She hated Mother going on like this. But of course she couldn’t say anything. Out of the window there was the sea and the sunlight silver on the palms, like water dripping from silver oars. Milly felt a yearning — what was it? — it was like a yearning to fly.
But Mother’s voice brought her back to the salon, to the gilt chairs, the gilt couches, sconces, cabinets, the tables with the heavy-sweet flowers, the faded brocade, the pink-spotted Chinese dragons on the mantelpiece and the two Turks’ heads in the fireplace that supported the broad logs.
“I think a leg of lamb would be nice, don’t you, dear?” said Mother. “The lamb is so very small and delicate just now. And men like nothing so much as plain roast meat. Yvonne prepares it so nicely, too, with that little frill of paper lace round the top of the leg. It always reminds me of something — I can’t think what. But it certainly makes it look very attractive indeed.”
§
Wednesday came. And the flutter that Mother and Milly had felt over the visiting card extended to the whole villa. Yes, it was not too much to say that the whole villa thrilled and fluttered at the idea of having a man to lunch. Old, flat-footed Yvonne came waddling back from market with a piece of gorgonzola in so perfect a condition that when she found Marie in the kitchen she flung down her great basket, snatched the morsel up and held it, rustling in its paper, to her quivering bosom.
“J’ai trouvé un morceau de gorgonzola,” she panted, rolling up her eyes as though she invited the heavens themselves to look down upon it. “J’ai un morceau de gorgonzola ici pour un prr-ince, ma fille.” And hissing the word “prr-ince” like lightning, she thrust the morsel under Marie’s nose. Marie, who was a delicate creature, almost swooned at the shock.
“Do you think,” cried Yvonne, scornfully, “that I would ever buy such cheese pour ces dames? Never. Never. Jamais de ma vie.” Her sausage finger wagged before her nose, and she minced in a dreadful imitation of Mother’s French, “We have none of us large appetites, Yvonne. We are very fond of boiled eggs and mashed potatoes and a nice, plain salad. Ah-Bah!” With a snort of contempt she flung away her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and began unpacking the basket. At the bottom there was a flat bottle which, sighing, she laid aside.
“De quoi pour mes cors,” said she.
And Marie, seizing a bottle of Sauterne and bearing it off to the dining-room murmured, as she shut the kitchen door behind her, “Et voilà pour les cors de Monsieur!”
The dining-room was a large room panelled in dark wood. It had a massive mantelpiece and carved chairs covered in crimson damask. On the heavy,