‘And now what about the pieces you say you have not room to display? The dresser is nice and I am curious to know what is hidden away in those cupboards and drawers.’
The Welsh dresser was well furnished with the receptacles she mentioned. There were three deep drawers side by side below the succession of small ones which formed the bottom shelf, and below the middle one of the three deep drawers were three more, the lowest of which, except for the skirting planks, reached the floor. On either side of these middle drawers were cupboards of considerable size.
‘Oh, there’s nothing more to see,’ said Honfleur, ‘except the less important china and the cutlery I keep for everyday use.’ He pulled open the drawers and the cupboard doors and proved the truth of his words. Conradda turned to other items of interest. On one of the walls was a fine collection of carved wooden love-spoons, the traditional gifts which young Welshmen in former times had presented to young women whom they expected to marry.
Dame Beatrice had seen modern replicas of such spoons, much less intricately fashioned, which were sold to tourists, but those on Honfleur’s wall were museum pieces, delightful things which must have occupied hours of patient and loving work.
She showed so much interest in them that Honfleur took each one down so that she could examine it more minutely. Conradda became restless and went apart to talk to Vittorio, who also showed no interest in the spoons.
‘1856,’ he said. ‘Well, around that time. Of nothing but local interest, I think. What of your friend’s two chargers? I see she has placed them on the table. Are they for sale, do you know?’
‘I could not say. You might make an offer, I suppose.’
Vittorio approached the other two with the intention of doing this. Honfleur turned round to him and said,
‘Put Dame Beatrice’s chargers on the dresser, so that they show to the best advantage.’
Vittorio moved two of the pieces and then, with an eye to colour and size, placed the delftware in what seemed to him a pleasing position on the shelves. Conradda expressed her approval.
‘Very nice,’ she said.
‘Is that where you would have placed them?’ asked Vittorio, surveying his arrangement by standing further back with his head on one side. ‘I think I like them like that. Now we get to business, perhaps, if Dame Beatrice is willing to part with the chargers.’
‘She has already agreed to part with them,’ said Honfleur.
‘But there has been no talk!’ said Conradda, scandalised.
‘Plenty of talk,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Mr Honfleur is going to take the platters in exchange for the love- spoons.’
‘Well!’ exclaimed the experts with, as it seemed, one voice. Dame Beatrice cackled and Honfleur laughed.
‘Oh, well,’ said Conradda philosophically, ‘it was a very nice dinner. A lot to drink, too.’ With this naive observation she went upstairs.
‘And,’ said Vittorio, ‘I did not collect those wooden spoons for him, so it is not the spoons I regret, but only the loss of a little business and a little fun. What does it mean, in English sport, to be given the wooden spoon?’
‘This, as it happens, was Welsh sport,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘These particular spoons are love-spoons.’
‘Love? Ah, we understand it well, we Italians. I kiss my hand to these spoons.’ He did so.
‘To be handed the wooden spoon is an English metaphor signifying that one or one’s team has come last in a sporting contest,’ explained Honfleur.
‘Like this cricket, which I do not pretend to follow?’
‘What with bouncers, body-line and one-day, limited-over games, they’ve ruined cricket,’ stated Honfleur. ‘At one time it was a gentleman’s pastime, but nowadays you injure the batsman or frighten him to death. Soon there won’t be stroke-play any more. It will be a case of the long handle and he who ducks quickest lasts longest. Look at this knock-out tournament of sixty overs an innings! Disgraceful! A travesty of a once glorious and classic game.’
‘If you are right, knock-out appears to be an appropriate word,’ said Dame Beatrice. Vittorio shook his head.
‘I do not understand this cricket,’ he said. Dame Beatrice, summing him up, decided that he understood it in neither the literal nor the figurative sense. Honfleur began tedious explanation of what he called ‘the finer points of the game’ and this was interrupted by the reappearance of Conradda from upstairs.
‘Well, it is getting late,’ said Dame Beatrice, glancing at her writwatch, ‘and I have a forty-mile drive.’
‘I came by train,’ said Conradda, ‘but I have booked in at a hotel for the night.’
‘Which one? Perhaps I could drive you there,’ said Vittorio. ‘I have my car here.’
‘The Parkway, a private hotel in Parks Road.’
‘Then you permit me?’ said Vittorio. ‘I have to go along Parks Road to reach my lodging.’
Honfleur bade his guests goodnight, Dame Beatrice, who had given her chauffeur a rough estimate of the time she would be leaving, got into her own car and was taken back to the Stone House just outside the Hampshire village of Wandles Parva and Conradda and Vittorio went off together. They seemed to have formed an alliance.
On the following morning Dame Beatrice received a telephone call while she was finishing her breakfast.
‘It’s from Conradda Mendel,’ said Laura, who had risen from the table to take the call. ‘She sounds urgent and
‘That man Vittorio,’ said Conradda, when Dame Beatrice went to the telephone, ‘was asking me last night whether you are interested in Chinese art. I am cautious, as you know, so I asked him what kind of Chinese art. He
