The Tomb of Madame was on the contrary almost gay. Foolish little flowers, half yellow, half blue, hung over the edge, wisps of green trailed across, and in the middle there was a large scarlet rose. Coeur saignant, Marie had called it. But it did not look in the least like a coeur saignant. It looked flushed and cheerful, like Mother emerging from the luxury of a warm bath.
Milly’s, of course, was all white. White stocks, little white rose-buds, with a sprig or two of dark box edging. It was Mother’s favourite.
Poor innocent! Marie, at the sideboard, had to turn her back when she heard Mother exclaim, “Isn’t it pretty, Milly? Isn’t it sweetly pretty? Most artistic. So original.” And she had said to Marie, “C’est tès joli, Marie. Très original.”
Marie’s smile was so remarkable that Milly, peeling a tangerine, remarked to Mother, “I don’t think she likes you to admire them. It makes her uncomfortable.”
But to-day — the glory of her opportunity made Marie feel quite faint as she seized her flower scissors. Tombeau d’un beau Monsieur. She was forbidden to cut the orchids that grew round the fountain basin. But what were orchids for if not for such an occasion? Her fingers trembled as the scissors snipped away. They were enough; Marie added two small sprays of palm. And back in the dining-room she had the happy idea of binding the palm together with a twist of gold thread deftly torn off the fringe of the dining-room curtains. The effect was superb. Marie almost seemed to see her beau Monsieur, very small, very small, at the bottom of the bowl, in full evening dress with a ribbon across his chest and his ears white as wax.
What surprised Milly, however, was that Miss Anderson should pay any attention to Mr. Prodger’s coming. She rustled to breakfast in her best black silk blouse, her Sunday blouse, with the large, painful-looking crucifix dangling over the front. Milly was alone when Miss Anderson entered the dining-room. This was unfortunate, for she always tried to avoid being left alone with Miss Anderson. She could not say exactly why; it was a feeling. She had the feeling that Miss Anderson might say something about God, or something fearfully intimate. Oh, she would sink through the floor if such a thing happened; she would expire. Supposing she were to say “Milly, do you believe in our Lord?” Heavens! It simply didn’t bear thinking about.
Good-morning, my dear,” said Miss Anderson, and her fingers, cold, pale, like church candles, touched Milly’s cheeks.
“Good-morning, Miss Anderson. May I give you some coffee?” said Milly, trying to be natural.
“Thank you, dear child,” said Miss Anderson, and laughing her light, nervous laugh, she hooked on her eyeglasses and stared at the basket of rolls. “And is it to-day that you expect your guest?” she asked.
Now why did she ask that? Why pretend when she knew perfectly well? That was all part of her strangeness. Or was it because she wanted to be friendly? Miss Anderson was more than friendly; she was genial. But there was always this something. Was she spying? People said at school that Roman Catholics spied... Miss Anderson rustled, rustled about the house like a dead leaf. Now she was on the stairs, now in the upstairs passage. Sometimes, at night, when Milly was feverish, she woke up and heard that rustle outside her door. Was Miss Anderson looking through the keyhole? And one night she actually had the idea that Miss Anderson had bored two holes in the wall above her head and was watching her from there. The feeling was so strong that next time she went into Miss Anderson’s room her eyes flew to the spot. To her horror a large picture hung there. Had it been there before?...
“Guest?” The crisp breakfast roll broke in half at the word.
“Yes, I think it is,” said Milly, vaguely, and her blue, flower-like eyes were raised to Miss Anderson in a vague stare.
“It will make quite a little change in our little party,” said the much-too-pleasant voice. “I confess I miss very much the society of men. I have had such a great deal of it in my life. I think that ladies by themselves are apt to get a little — h’m — h’m...” And helping herself to cherry jam, she spilt it on the cloth.
Milly took a large, childish bite out of her roll. There was nothing to reply to this. But how young Miss Anderson made her feel! She made her want to be naughty, to pour milk over her head or make a noise with a spoon.
“Ladies by themselves,” went on Miss Anderson, who realised none of this, “are very apt to find their interests limited.”
“Why?” said Milly, goaded to reply. People always said that; it sounded most unfair.
“I think,” said Miss Anderson, taking off her eyeglasses and looking a little dim, “it is the absence of political discussion.”
“Oh, politics!” cried Milly, airily. “I hate politics. Father always said — —” But here she pulled up short. She crimsoned. She didn’t want to talk about Father to Miss Anderson.
“Oh! Look! Look! A butterfly!” cried Miss Anderson, softly and hastily. “Look, what a darling!” Her own cheeks flushed a slow red at the sight of the darling butterfly fluttering so softly over the glittering table.
That was very nice of Miss Anderson — fearfully nice of her. She must have realised that Milly didn’t want to talk about Father and so she had mentioned the butterfly on purpose. Milly smiled at Miss Anderson as she never had smiled at her before. And she said in her warm, youthful voice, “He is a duck, isn’t he? I love butterflies. I think they are great lambs.”
§
The morning whisked away as foreign mornings do. Mother had half decided to wear her hat at lunch.
“What do you think, Milly? Do you think as head of the house it might be appropriate? On the other hand one does not want to do anything at all extreme.”
“Which do you mean, Mother? Your mushroom or the jampot?”
“Oh, not the jampot, dear.” Mother was quite used to Milly’s name for it. “I somehow don’t feel myself in a hat without a brim. And to tell you the truth I am still not quite certain whether I was wise in buying the jampot. I cannot help the feeling that if I were to meet Father in it he would be a little too surprised. More than once lately,” went on Mother quickly, “I have thought of taking off the trimming, turning it upside down, and making it into a nice little workbag. What do you think, dear? But we must not go into it now, Milly. This is not the moment for such schemes. Come on to the balcony. I have told Marie we shall have coffee there. What about bringing out that big chair with the nice, substantial legs for Mr. Prodger? Men are so fond of nice, substantial... No, not by yourself, love! Let me help you.”
When the chair was carried out Milly thought it looked exactly like Mr. Prodger. It was Mr. Prodger admiring the view.
“No, don’t sit down on it. You mustn’t,” she cried hastily, as Mother began to subside. She put her arm through Mother’s and drew her back into the salon.
Happily, at that moment there was a rustle and Miss Anderson was upon them. In excellent time, for once. She carried a copy of the Morning Post.
“I have been trying to find out from this,” said she, lightly tapping the newspaper with her eyeglasses, “whether Congress is sitting at present. But unfortunately, after reading my copy right through, I happened to glance at the heading and discovered it was five weeks’ old.”
Congress! Would Mr. Prodger expect them to talk about Congress? The idea terrified Mother. Congress! The American parliament,