4
Harry doesn’t realise a bit how short holidays are. Easter—nothing. Just one dance and never seeing the people again. I was right just now. I was on the right track then. I must get back to that. It’s no good giving way right or left; I must make a beginning of my own life.... I wish I had been called “Patience” and had thin features.... Adam Street, Adelphi.... “Now do you want to be dancing out there with one of those young fellows, my dear girl—No? That’s a very good thing for me. I’m an old buffer who can’t manage more than every other dance or so. But if you do me the honour of sitting here while those young barbarians romp their Lancers?... Ah, that is excellent—I want you to talk to me. You needn’t mind me. Hey? What? I’ve known that young would-be brother-in-law of yours for many years and this evening I’ve been watching your face. Do you mind that, dear girl, that I’ve watched your face? In all homage. I’m a staunch worshipper of womanhood. I’ve seen rough life as well as suave. I’m an old gold-digger—Ustralia took many years of my life; but it never robbed me of my homage for women....
“That’s a mystery to me. How you’ve allowed your young sister to overhaul you. Perhaps you have a Corydon hidden away somewhere—or don’t think favourably of the bonds of matrimony? Is that it?
“You are not one to be easily happy. But that is no reason why you should say you pity anyone undertaking to pass through life at your side. Don’t let your thoughts and ideas allow you to miss happiness. Women are made to find and dispense happiness. Even intense women like yourself. But you won’t find it an easy matter to discover your mate.
“Have you ever thought of committing your ideas to paper? There’s a book called ‘The Confessions of a Woman.’ It had a great sale and its composition occupied the authoress for only six weeks. You could write in your holidays.
“Think over what I’ve told you, my dear, dear girl. And don’t forget old Bob Greville’s address. You’re eighteen. He’s only eight; eight Adam Street. The old Adam. Waiting to hear from the new Eve—whenever she’s unhappy.”
He would be there again, old flatterer, with his steely blue eyes and that strong little Dr. Conelly—Conelly who held you like a vice and swung you round and kept putting you back from him to say things. “If only you knew the refreshment it is to dance with a girl who can talk sense and doesn’t giggle.... Yes yes yes, women are physically incapable of keeping a secret.... Meredith, he’s the man. He understands woman as no other writer——” And the little dark man—De Vigne—who danced like a snake.... Tired? Divinely drowsy? That’s what I like. Don’t talk. Let yourself go. Little snail, Harriett called him. And that giant, Conelly’s friend, whirling you round the room like a gust, with his eyes fixed far away in the distance and dropping you with the chaperones at the end of the dance. If he had suddenly said “Let yourself go” ... He too would have become a snail. God has made life ugly.
Dear Mr. Greville, dear Bob. Do you know anything about a writer called Meredith? If you have one of his books I should like to read it. No. Dear Bob, I’m simply wretched. I want to talk to you.