Just as I have, mentally, seen exquisite Paris-model gown that exactly fits me, for sale in draper's window at improbable price of forty-nine shillings and sixpence, am recalled to reality by loud and cordial greetings of Our Vicar's Wife, who plunges through traffic at great risk to life in order to say what a coincidence this is, considering that we met yesterday, and are sure to be meeting to-morrow. She also invites me to come and help her choose white linen buttons for pillow-cases--but this evidently leading direct to Haberdashery once more, and I refuse--I hope with convincing appearance of regret.
Am subsequently dealt with by hairdresser--who says that I am the only lady he knows that still wears a bob--and once more achieve bus, where I meet Miss S. of the Post Office, who has also been shopping. We agree that a day's shopping is tiring--One's Feet, says Miss S.--and that the bus hours are inconvenient. Still, we can't hope for everything in this world, and Miss S. admits that she is looking forward to a Nice Cup of Tea and perhaps a Lay-Down, when she gets home. Reflect, not for the first time, that there are advantages in being a spinster. Should be sorry to say exactly how long it is since I last had a Lay-Down myself, without being disturbed at least fourteen times in the course of it.
Spend much time, on reaching home, in unpacking and distributing household requirements, folding up and putting away paper and string, and condoling with Vicky, who alleges that Casabianca had made her walk miles and miles, and she has a pain in her wrist. Do not attempt to connect these two statements, but suggest the sofa and Dr. Dolittle, to which Vicky agrees with air of exhaustion, which is greatly intensified every time she catches my eye.
Later on, Casabianca turns up--looking pale-green with cold and making straight for the fire--and announces that he and the children have had a Splendid Walk and are all the better for it. Since I know, and Vicky knows, that this is being said for the express benefit of Vicky, we receive it rather tepidly, and conversation lapses while I pursue elusive sum of ten shillings and threepence through shopping accounts. Robin comes in by the window--I say, too late, Oh, your boots!--and Robert, unfortunately choosing this moment to appear, enquires whether there isn't a schoolroom in the house?
Atmosphere by this time is quite unfavourable to festivity, and I go up to dress for the Frobishers--or, more accurately, for the Blamingtons--feeling limp.
Hot bath restores me slightly--but relapse occurs when entirely vital shoulder-strap gives way and needle and thread become necessary.
Put on my Green, dislike it very much indeed, and once more survey contents of wardrobe, as though expecting to find miraculous addition to already perfectly well-known contents.
Needless to say, this does not happen, and after some contemplation of my Black--which looks rusty and entirely out of date--and my Blue--which is a candidate for the next Jumble sale--I return to the looking-glass still in my Green, and gaze at myself earnestly.
(Query: Does this denote irrational hope of sudden and complete transformation in personal appearance? If so, can only wonder that so much faith should meet with so little reward.)
Jewel-case unfortunately rather low at present--(have every hope of restoring at least part of the contents next month, if American sales satisfactory)--but great-aunt's diamond ring fortunately still with us, and I put it on fourth finger of left hand, and hope that Bill will think Robert gave it to me. Exact motive governing this wish far too complicated to be analysed, but shelve entire question by saying to myself that Anyway, Robert certainly would have given it to me if he could have afforded it.
Evening cloak is smarter than musquash coat; put it on. Robert says Am I off my head and do I want to arrive frozen? Brief discussion follows, but I know he is right and I am wrong, and eventually compromise by putting on fur coat, and carrying cloak, to make decent appearance with on arrival in hall.
Fausse sortie ensues--as it so frequently does in domestic surroundings--and am twice recalled on the very verge of departure, once by Ethel, with superfluous observation that she supposes she had better not lock up at ten o'clock, and once by Robin, who takes me aside and says that he is very sorry, he has broken his bedroom window. It was, he says, entirely an accident, as he was only kicking his football about. I point out briefly, but kindly, that accidents of this nature are avoidable, and we part affectionately. Robert, at the wheel, looks patient, and I feel perfectly convinced that entire evening is going to be a failure.
Nobody in drawing-room when we arrive, and butler looks disapprovingly round, as though afraid that Lady F. or Sir William may be quietly hiding under some of the furniture, but this proving groundless, he says that he will Inform Her Ladyship, and leaves us. I immediately look in the glass, which turns out to be an ancient Italian treasure, and shows me a pale yellow reflection, with one eye much higher than the other. Before I have in any way recovered, Lady F. is in the room, so is Sir William, and so are the Blamingtons. Have not the slightest idea what happens next, but can see that Bill, except that he has grown bald, is unaltered, and has kept his figure, and that I do not like the look of his wife, who has lovely hair, a Paris frock, and is elaborately made-up.
We all talk a great deal about the weather, which is--as usual--cold, and I hear myself assuring Sir W. that our rhododendrons are not yet showing a single bud. Sir W. expresses astonishment--which would be even greater if he realised that we only have one rhododendron in the world, and that I haven't set eyes on it for weeks owing to pressure of indoor occupations--and we go in to dinner. I am placed between Sir W. and Bill, and Bill looks at me and says Well, well, and we talk about Hampstead, and mutual friends, of whom Bill says Do you ever see anything of them nowadays? to which I am invariably obliged to reply No, we haven't met for years. Bill makes the best of this by observing civilly that I am lucky to live in such a lovely part of the world, and he supposes we have a very charming house, to which I reply captiously No, quite ordinary, and we both laugh.
Conversation after this much easier, and I learn that Bill has two children, a boy and a girl. I say that I have the same, and, before I can stop myself, have added that this is really a most extraordinary coincidence. Wish I hadn't been so emphatic about it, and hastily begin to talk about aviation to Sir William. He has a great deal to say about this, and I ejaculate Yes at intervals, and ascertain that Bill's wife is telling Robert that the policy of the Labour party is suicidal, to which he assents heartily, and that Lady F. and Bill are exchanging views about Norway.
Shortly after this, conversation becomes general, party-politics predominating--everyone except myself apparently holding Conservative views, and taking it for granted that none other exist in civilised circles--and I lapse into silence.
(Query: Would not a greater degree of moral courage lead me to straightforward and open declaration of precise attitude held by myself in regard to the Conservative and other parties? Answer: Indubitably, yes--but results of such candour not improbably disastrous, and would assuredly add little to social amenities of present occasion.)
Entirely admirable dinner brought to a close with South African pears, and Lady F. says Shall we have coffee in the drawing-room?--entirely rhetorical question, as decision naturally rests with herself.
Customary quarter of an hour follows, during which I look at Bill's wife, and like her less than ever, especially when she and Lady F. discuss hairdressers, and topic of Permanent Waves being introduced--(probably on purpose)--by Bill's wife, she says that her own is Perfectly Natural, which I feel certain, to my disgust, is the truth.
It transpires that she knows Pamela Pringle, and later on she tells Bill that Pamela