5
Concha came into Teresa’s room to have her gown unfastened: “You looked heavenly,” she said, “I love you in mauve.”
Teresa tugged at the hooks in silence; and then said: “Is it impossible to teach Parker to unsqueeze hooks when they come back from Pullar’s?”
“Quite. I nearly died with the effort of getting them to fasten.”
Then outside there was a familiar muffled step, and a knock. In the mirror Teresa saw a look of annoyance pass over Concha’s face.
In came the Doña, in a white dressing-gown, her face illuminated by the flame of her candle, and looking not unlike one of Zurburán’s Carthusian monks.
“Well?” she said.
“Well darling,” answered Concha, with exaggerated nonchalance, adding to Teresa, “won’t they undo?”
The Doña put down her candle, and seated herself heavily on the bed.
“Oh, damn them! Won’t they undo? Haven’t you any scissors?”
“That young Dundas seemed to enjoy himself,” said the Doña.
No answer.
Then the hooks yielded at last to the leverage of the nail-scissors, and Concha kissed the Doña and Teresa and went back to her own room.
The Doña sat on.
“Do you think he is attracted by Concha?”
“Who?”
“That young Dundas.”
“I really don’t know ... do you want him to be?”
“Do I want him to be? What has that to do with it? I want to know if he is.”
“Do you mean does he want to marry her?”
“Marry her! Englishmen never think of marriage ... they just what you call ‘rag round’; they can’t even fall in love.”
Teresa scrutinised her for a few seconds, and then she said: “I believe you are furious with every man who doesn’t fall in love with one of your daughters;” and she suddenly remembered a remark of Concha’s made in a moment of intense irritation: “The Doña ought to keep a brothel—then she would be really happy.”