Love in a Muddle

by Christine Jope-Slade

I thought she seemed stronger and more lovely than ever; she was full of whims and loveliness. She seemed to sparkle with happiness. She sent us away, she wanted a consultation with the cook.

"It is to be a very special dinner," she told us. "And Pam is to go and lie down. Sweetheart, have you a white frock?"

"No," I said, "only pink, dear, pink and grey."

"You must wear white," she said. "I am bubbling with schemes for my dinner of dinners. I have a frock for you, Pam. Nurse shall bring it—you'll look like a funny little Dutch princess in it, stepped out of an old Dutch fairy-tale book. Now run away, Honey."

Nurse was perturbed when she brought the frock; it was of softest ivory white satin, made in Empire style with a wealth of real point de rose lace.

"She will insist," she said, "and the doctor said she was to have her own way as much as possible—but I don't know. I don't know, I'm sure. She says you are to wear this pearl comb in your hair, and these little white satin shoes studded with pearls. Aren't they ducks? Are you going to pile your hair on the top of your head like those funny old pictures downstairs? I wish the doctor would call again. I think he'd veto this dinner idea, but I'm not sure it wouldn't upset her more to be thwarted than to give it. She's wonderful."

There are moments in everyone's life when you feel as if you're taking part in an unreal play; there comes a sudden feeling of panic, as if you did not know your part. I got it that night when I was dressing—and yet there was a dreadful thrilling, electric sweetness about it all.

I was excited, my fingers and my toes tingled and my spine felt creepy; and when I brushed my hair it cracked with electricity, and a funny little nerve near my ear that always betrays itself when I am excited began to wriggle.

I suppose there is something of the joy of forbidden fruit in it—but it is wonderful and gorgeous to have Cheneston look at me like a lover, even though I know it is only to satisfy his mother.

I think it is awful the way we women can kid ourselves about love, drench ourselves in a sweetness that isn't really there, get intoxicated with a joy that exists only in our own imaginations.