She muttered some excuse to Lady Prague and ran back to the house, never pausing until she had reached her own room. She lay on the bed and sobbed her heart out. This seemed to do her a great deal of good; and when she had stopped crying, and had made herself look presentable again, she felt so calm and aloof that she decided to go into the billiard-room. She told herself that she would only make things worse by sulking and that the best thing would be to behave to Albert exactly as if none of this had happened.
There was an atmosphere of concentration in the billiard-room. Albert had dragged down from some attic a curious, stiff little Victorian sofa with curly legs, upholstered in wool and bead embroidery, and had posed Sally on this in front of the window with her feet up and her head turned towards the light. He was painting with great speed and enthusiasm. Walter was writing at a table near by. Neither looked round when Jane came in. Sally, however, was delighted to see her.
‘Jane, darling, where have you been all this time? We were beginning to think you must be getting off with the admiral. I hope, I’m sure, that his intentions are honourable, but don’t marry him, darling. I feel he takes his eye out at night and floats it in Milton, which must look simply horrid. Anyway, I’m terribly glad you’ve come at last: these creatures have been just too boring and haven’t thrown me a word all day. I’ve done nothing but contemplate that bust of the Prince Consort, and I’m terrified my poor angel will come out exactly like him – whiskers and all; because it’s a well-known fact that pregnant women can influence their children’s features by looking at something for too long. An aunt of mine could see from her bed a reproduction of the Mona Lisa and my wretched cousin is exactly like it – just that idiotic smile and muddy complexion – most depressing for her, poor thing.’
Jane laughed; but the joke about the admiral seemed unnecessary, she thought, and rather unkind considering the circumstances, forgetting that Sally was not aware of them. She wandered over to where Albert was painting and glanced at the canvas, not intending to make any comment. When she saw it, however, she was startled out of all her sulkiness into crying:
‘But, surely, this isn’t your style?’
‘Not my usual style, no,’ said Albert complacently, ‘but one which, to my mind, expresses very well the personality of Sally. Do you agree?’
‘Oh, Albert, it’s too lovely! I can’t tell you how much I admire it.’ Her voice shook a little. (‘Albert, Albert, darling, I do love you so much!’)
The picture, which was small and square, was painted with a curious precision of detail which gave it rather a Victorian aspect, but in spite of this the general design could have been achieved at no time but the present.
‘It’s nearly finished already, isn’t it?’
‘Very nearly, which is lucky, as I leave on Thursday for Paris.’
Jane felt as though somebody had hit her very hard and very suddenly in the middle of her chest. ‘Today is Tuesday … He goes on Thursday … Only one more day! Albert, oh, Albert darling! He doesn’t love me, then: it’s quite certain now that he doesn’t; but he loves Sally, so he’s running away. Lady Prague was right. But if he doesn’t love me, why, why, why did he pretend to? Only one more day!’
While all these thoughts were racing through Jane’s head she was talking and laughing in the most natural way. Nobody could have suspected that she was in Hell.
Lady Prague came in, followed by Mr Buggins.
‘We’ve come to see this famous picture,’ she said, walking up to it.
Albert, who hated the idea of Lady Prague criticizing his work, stood aside reluctantly.
(‘Only one more day!’)
‘How very sympathetic that is, Gates, or do I really mean simpatica?’ said Mr Buggins. ‘I feel it to be so exactly right. I can’t tell you how much I admire it, really too delightful.’
‘Quite pretty,’ said Lady Prague, half-shutting her eyes and putting her head on one side as she had learnt to do years ago at an art school in Paris. ‘The face, of course, is a little out of drawing. But it’s so difficult, isn’t it,’ she added, with an encouraging smile. ‘And when you’ve once started wrong it hardly ever comes right, does it? One fault, if I may say so, is that Mrs Monteath has blue eyes, hasn’t she? And there you can hardly tell what colour they’re meant to be, can you? But perhaps your brushes are dirty.’
(‘Only one more day!’)
13
Jane dressed for dinner that night with unusual care, even for her. She put on a white satin dress that she had not yet worn, feeling that it was a little too smart for a Scottish house party. With it she wore a short coat to match, trimmed with white fur. She spent almost an hour making up her face and looking in the glass before going downstairs, and felt that, at any rate, she appeared at her very best. This made her feel happier until she went into the drawing-room.
Albert was talking to Sally by the fire when Jane came in. He looked up for a moment and then, not rudely but as though unintentionally, he turned his back on her.
Jane felt that she would burst into tears, but, controlling herself, she talked in a loud, high voice to Walter until dinner was announced.
She sat between Admiral Wenceslaus and Captain Chadlington. The admiral poured a torrent of facts and figures relating to the freedom of the sea into her all but deaf ears. She caught the words: ‘Prize
