“D’you think it right to try to introduce single pieces of Japanese art into English surroundings?” she said tartly, beginning on the instruments.
“East is East and West is West and never the twain can meet?”
“That’s a dreadful idea—I don’t believe it a bit.”
Mr. Hancock laughed. He believed in those awful final dreary-weary things … some species are so widely differentiated that they cannot amalgamate—awful … but if one said that he would laugh and say it was beyond him … and he liked and disliked without understanding the curious differences between people—did not know why they were different—they put him off or did not put him off and he was just. He liked and reverenced Japanese art and there was an artist in his family. That was strange and fine.
“I suppose we ought to have some face-powder here,” mused Mr. Hancock.
“They’ll take longer than ever if we do.”
“I know—that’s the worst of it; but I commit such fearful depredations … we want a dressing room … if I had my way we’d have a proper dressing room downstairs. But I think we must get some powder and a puff. … Do you think you could get some … ?” Miriam shrank. Once in a chemist’s shop, in a strong Burlington Arcade west-end mood buying some scent, she had seized and bought a little box. … La Dorine de Poche … Dorin, Paris … but that was different to asking openly for powder and a puff … la Dorine de Dorin Paris was secret and wonderful. … “I’ll try,” she said bravely and heard the familiar little sympathetic laugh.
Lunch would be ready in a few minutes and none of the letters were done. She glanced distastefully at the bold handwritings scrawling, under impressive stamped addresses with telephone numbers, and names of stations and telegraphic addresses, across the well-shaped sheets of expensive notepaper, to ask in long, fussy, badly-put sentences for expensive appointments. Several of the signatures were unfamiliar to her and must be looked up in the ledger in case titles might be attached. She glanced at the dates of the appointments—they could all go by the evening post. What a good thing Mr. Hancock had given up overlooking the correspondence. Mrs. Hermann’s letter he should see … but that could not anyhow have been answered by return. The lunch-bell rang. … Mr. Orly’s letters! There was probably a telegram or some dreadful urgent thing about one or other of them that ought to have been dealt with. With beating heart she fumbled them through—each one bore the word answered in Mrs. Orly’s fine pointed hand. Thank goodness. Opening a drawer she crammed them into a crowded clip … at least a week’s addresses to be checked or entered. … Mr. Hancock’s unanswered letters went into the same drawer, leaving her table fairly clear. Mr. Leyton’s door burst open, he clattered down the basement stairs. Miriam went into his room and washed her hands in the corner basin under the patent unleaking taps. Everything was splashed over with permanganate of potash. The smell of the room combined all the dental drugs with the odour of leather—a volunteer officer’s accoutrements lay in confusion all over on the secretaire. Beside them stood an open pot of leather polish. Mr. and Mrs. Orly passed the open door and went downstairs. They were alone. The guest had gone.
“Come and share the remains of the banquet Miss Hens’n.”
“Do have just a bit of somethin’, Ro darling, a bit of chicking or somethin’.”
“Feeling the effects?” remarked Mr. Leyton cheerfully munching, “I’ve got a patient at half past,” he added nervously glancing up as if to justify his existence as well as his remark. Miriam hoped he would go on; perhaps it would occur to Mrs. Orly to ask him about the patient.
“You’d feel the effects my boy if you hadn’t had a wink the whole blessed night.”
“Hancock busy Miss Hens’?” Miriam glanced at the flushed forehead and hoped that Mr. Orly would remain with his elbows on the table and his face hidden in his hands. She was hungry and there would be no peace for anybody if he were roused.
“Too many whiskies?” enquired Mr. Leyton cheerfully, shovelling salad on to his plate.
“Too much whisking and frisking altogether sergeant,” said Mr. Orly incisively, raising his head.
Mrs. Orly flushed and frowned at Mr. Orly.
“Don’t be silly Ley—you know how father hates dinner parties.”
Mr. Orly sighed harshly, pulling himself up as Miriam began a dissertation on Mr. Hancock’s crowded day.
“Ze got someone with him now?” put in Mrs. Orly perfunctorily.
“Wonderful man,” sighed Mr. Orly harshly, glancing
