It appeared that Miss Smith was called Poppy. She seemed to like Jasper and expressed sympathy for Noel, whose appearance probably failed to attract her. Miss Jones did not vouchsafe her name, neither did she join in the conversation which followed, but stood tapping long white fingers on her bag, as though anxious to get away.
Miss Smith asked how long Jasper was stopping at the Jolly Roger.
‘I expect we shall be here for some weeks. I am engaged upon research work in the neighbourhood, of a delicate and interesting nature, and Noel has his cure. He has had a very sad time lately – the aunt with whom he lived died suddenly.’
Miss Smith regretted. Noel raged inwardly. From now onwards he was stamped as a delicate young man who had always lived with his aunt, a woman whom actually he had seen about four times in his life.
‘And you,’ continued Jasper, ‘how long shall you be here?’
It appeared that Miss Smith felt herself suited by Chalford, but that Miss Jones did not. ‘My friend,’ said Miss Smith, rather nervously, ‘er – Miss Jones here, finds the Jolly Roger so very uncomfortable. The bath isn’t built in, as you have probably noticed, and she is not used to sharing a bathroom with other people. The beds, too, are rather hard.’
‘I didn’t know that Rickmansworth was noted for its sybarites,’ said Jasper.
‘Rickmansworth?’ said Miss Smith vaguely – then pulling herself together, ‘Oh, Rickmansworth you mean? Where we come from? Is a liking for the ordinary comforts of life limited within geographic boundaries? I never heard it.’
‘The Jolly Roger is fitted with more than the ordinary comforts of life. The place is clean, the food eatable, the beer extraordinarily good, while as for the bath it is often quite nice and warm you know, and now that, as I see, you have bought some soap, we shall all be able to have a good wash in it.’
Miss Jones shuddered. Opening her mouth for the first time she remarked in a sort of high wail that she was going to grease her face and lie down for a bit. She then walked quickly away. Jasper noticed, on the fourth finger of Miss Smith’s left hand, a palpable wedding-ring of small diamonds. He was not displeased, and suggested that they should take a stroll together.
It was now that Noel, wandering gloomily by himself, ran into Mrs Lace, the Local Beauty.
4
Every country neighbourhood has its local beauty, and Chalford provided no exception to this rule. Anne-Marie Lace, however, was not quite the usual type of faded fluffy little woman whose large blue eyes attract a yearly-diminishing troop of admirers at the covert side or on the tennis court. She was lacking in any sporting accomplishments; she was intellectually pretentious; she was ambitious, and she was really beautiful. It was her tragedy that she was born, bred and married in the country.
In London, with her looks and energetic will to please, she could undoubtedly have made an entrance into that sort of society which she longed for, the semi-intellectual society which is much photographed and often spoken of in the newspapers. Even in the vicinity of Chalford, wretchedly narrow as was the field it had to offer, she was something of a star, and indeed was known to the gentry for many miles around as ‘the beautiful Mrs Lace’. She had the satisfaction of knowing that most of the women disliked her, while their husbands, loutish boors whom she despised, thought her lovely but much too highbrow. This was satisfactory, still more so was the whole-hearted adulation which was laid at her feet by some ten or twelve rather weedy youths, who formed every summer a kind of artistic colony in thatched cottages near Rackenbridge. They supposed her to be rich, ate quantities of free meals beneath her roof, and painted incompetent little pictures of her in the most extravagant poses. They also helped to design her clothes which were always an endless topic of local conversation as she never could resist appearing at everyday functions in elaborate fancy dress. The black velvet, fur hat and ear-rings of a Russian Grand Duchess, the livid greens and yellows of a Bakst ballet dancer, taffeta bustle and Alexandra fringe, Mandarin tunic and trousers, making each its appearance on some most inappropriate occasion aroused each in turn, among tweeded local ladies, a storm of discussion and criticism, the repercussions of which reached Mrs Lace, by no means displeasing her.
Nevertheless Mrs Lace was a thoroughly discontented woman, neither her house, her husband nor her children afforded her any satisfaction. The house, Comberry Manor, had belonged to the parents of Major Lace and was very nondescript. In vain did she beg that she might redecorate it to her own taste, thus giving expression to the aesthetic side of her nature by painting every wall white and having all the furniture pickled.
Major Lace refused to spend a penny in that direction; he liked his house very well as it was, so poor Mrs Lace was obliged to confine her activities to the bathroom, which she papered entirely with pictures out of Vogue, curtaining it with oilcloth. This she did with her own hands, under the supervision of an artistic young man from Rackenbridge called Mr Leader.
Her husband was considered by Anne-Marie and her satellites to be a terrible drag upon his exquisite wife. In fact, he was a nice, simple, ordinary man, with few ideas beyond the suitable mating of his prize Jersey cows. He was no longer in love with Anne-Marie, but still took her at her own valuation, was proud of her beauty, and considered that she was the very glass of fashion and the mould of form. This did not, however, ensure him making the requisite allowances for her artistic temperament, often he irritated her profoundly when she
