LAMIA’S WINTER-QUARTERS
‘Where is Lamia?’
The inquiry is one not infrequently made; for, while most of us can vanish without being missed, some favoured individuals there are whose disappearance at once excites a sense of loss; and Lamia is one of these. The question, I need scarcely say, was put by Veronica; since the Poet maintains a fine irresponsible attitude respecting others as well as about himself, and, however anxious I may be to keep sight of Lamia, I am hardly so simple as to betray my desire. But, responding with sincere alacrity to Veronica’s question, I protested I had not the faintest notion where she was, but would at once go in search of her.
Veronica’s solicitude was, I suspect, prompted by that deep-seated regard for decorous behaviour, which, far from leaving it at home, she had carefully brought abroad as peculiarly applicable to foreign parts and Continental manners. She is well aware that, in the matter of social observances, Lamia is capable of almost any enormity; and her absence from the morning-room of the hotel in the southern seaport where we were making our first halt, inspired her with natural misgiving.
The search, as it turned out, was not a long one. Lamia I found seated under a tall white-flowering magnolia in a leafy garden hard by, where oleanders already well set for bloom, though still far from their flowering season, and trees that for some unknown reason English people call mimosas, but which they should learn to speak of as acacias, and various evergreen shrubs of stately stature, concerning which I should not at present like to be too closely cross-questioned, offered a sufficient protection against the burning December morning sun, while permitting occasional glimpses of deep-blue sky. Ostensibly, she was having a further polish put on her brown leather shoes by a black-eyed, black-haired, tawny-skinned urchin, who entered into her humour with true Southern adaptability, and who would have gone on performing his quite unnecessary office as long as ever the young lady desired. For the moment, I think, she had forgotten all about him, for she had three oranges in her lap,—‘One for each of you,’ she said,—and was delicately dividing the other for her own delectation. A large spray of Parma violets, fastened to her attractive person, I need scarcely say exactly where they should be, completed her recent purchases.
‘Do you mind asking Veronica to come and see me?’ she said, ‘for I never was so happy in my life.’