On the sofa, beside the chess-players, Mrs. Elliot was imparting a new stitch in knitting to Mrs. Thornbury, so that their heads came very near together, and were only to be distinguished by the old lace cap which Mrs. Thornbury wore in the evening. Mrs. Elliot was an expert at knitting, and disclaimed a compliment to that effect with evident pride.
'I suppose we're all proud of something,' she said, 'and I'm proud of my knitting. I think things like that run in families. We all knit well. I had an uncle who knitted his own socks to the day of his death--and he did it better than any of his daughters, dear old gentleman. Now I wonder that you, Miss Allan, who use your eyes so much, don't take up knitting in the evenings. You'd find it such a relief, I should say--such a rest to the eyes--and the bazaars are so glad of things.' Her voice dropped into the smooth half-conscious tone of the expert knitter; the words came gently one after another. 'As much as I do I can always dispose of, which is a comfort, for then I feel that I am not wasting my time--' Miss Allan, being thus addressed, shut her novel and observed the others placidly for a time. At last she said, 'It is surely not natural to leave your wife because she happens to be in love with you. But that--as far as I can make out--is what the gentleman in my story does.'
'Tut, tut, that doesn't sound good--no, that doesn't sound at all natural,' murmured the knitters in their absorbed voices.
'Still, it's the kind of book people call very clever,' Miss Allan added.
'_Maternity_--by Michael Jessop--I presume,' Mr. Elliot put in, for he could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess.
'D'you know,' said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, 'I don't think people _do_ write good novels now--not as good as they used to, anyhow.'
No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her. Arthur Venning who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game, sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allan, who was half asleep, and said humorously, 'A penny for your thoughts, Miss Allan.'
The others looked up. They were glad that he had not spoken to them. But Miss Allan replied without any hesitation, 'I was thinking of my imaginary uncle. Hasn't every one got an imaginary uncle?' she continued. 'I have one--a most delightful old gentleman. He's always giving me things. Sometimes it's a gold watch; sometimes it's a carriage and pair; sometimes it's a beautiful little cottage in the New Forest; sometimes it's a ticket to the place I most want to see.'
She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted. Mrs. Elliot knew exactly what she wanted; she wanted a child; and the usual little pucker deepened on her brow.
'We're such lucky people,' she said, looking at her husband. 'We really have no wants.' She was apt to say this, partly in order to convince herself, and partly in order to convince other people. But she was prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the chess-board. Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever. A great strand of black hair looped down across her brow, her cheeks were whipped a dark blood red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them.
Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the storm.
'It was a wonderful sight,' he said. 'The lightning went right out over the sea, and lit up the waves and the ships far away. You can't think how wonderful the mountains looked too, with the lights on them, and the great masses of shadow. It's all over now.' He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of the game.
'And you go back to-morrow?' said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs. Flushing.
'Yes,' she replied.
'And indeed one is not sorry to go back,' said Mrs. Elliot, assuming an air of mournful anxiety, 'after all this illness.'
'Are you afraid of dyin'?' Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully.
'I think we are all afraid of that,' said Mrs. Elliot with dignity.
'I suppose we're all cowards when it comes to the point,' said Mrs. Flushing, rubbing her cheek against the back of the chair. 'I'm sure I am.'
'Not a bit of it!' said Mr. Flushing, turning round, for Mr. Pepper took a very long time to consider his move. 'It's not cowardly to wish to live, Alice. It's the very reverse of cowardly. Personally, I'd like to go on for a hundred years-- granted, of course, that I had the full use of my faculties. Think of all the things that are bound to happen!' 'That is what I feel,' Mrs. Thornbury rejoined. 'The changes, the improvements, the inventions-and beauty. D'you know I feel sometimes that I couldn't bear to die and cease to see beautiful things about me?'
'It would certainly be very dull to die before they have discovered whether there is life in Mars,' Miss Allan added.
'Do you really believe there's life in Mars?' asked Mrs. Flushing, turning to her for the first time with keen interest. 'Who tells you that? Some one who knows? D'you know a man called--?'
Here Mrs. Thornbury laid down her knitting, and a look of extreme solicitude came into her eyes.
