The sight of the old house and the faces of some of the older women in the quartier conjured up the past so vividly for Sylvia that she could not bring herself to make any inquiries about the rest of her family. It seemed as if she must once more look at Lille from her mother’s point of view and maintain the sanctity of private life against the curiosity or criticism of neighbors. She did not wish to hear the details of her father’s misdoing or perhaps be condoled with over Valentine. The simplest procedure would have been to lay a wreath upon the grave and depart again. This she might have done if Mrs. Gainsborough’s genial inquisitiveness about her relatives had not roused in herself a wish to learn something about them. She decided to visit her eldest sister in Brussels, leaving it to chance if she still lived where Sylvia had visited her twelve years ago.
“Brussels,” said Mrs. Gainsborough. “Well, that sounds familiar, anyway. Though I suppose the sprout-gardens are all built over nowadays. Ah dear!”
The building over of her father’s nursery-garden and of many other green spots she had known in London always drew a tear from Mrs. Gainsborough, who was inclined to attribute most of human sorrow to the utilitarian schemes of builders.
“Yes, they found the Belgian hares ate up all the sprouts,” Sylvia said. “And talking of hair,” she went on, “what’s the matter with yours?”
“Ah, well, there! Now I meant to say nothing about it. But I’ve left me mahogany wash at home. There’s a calamity!”
“You’d better come out with me and buy another bottle,” Sylvia advised.
“You’ll never get one here,” said Mrs. Gainsborough. “This is a wash, not a dye, you must remember. It doesn’t tint the hair; it just brings up the color and gives it a nice gloss.”
“If that’s all it does, I’ll lend you my shoe-polish. Go along, you wicked old fraud, and don’t talk to me about washes. I can see the white hairs coming out like stars.”
Sylvia found Elène in Brussels, and was amazed to see how much she resembled her mother nowadays. M. Durand, her husband, had prospered and he now owned a large confectioner’s shop in the heart of the city, above which Madame Durand had started a pension for economical tourists. Mrs. Gainsborough could not get over the fact that her hostess did not speak English; it struck her as unnatural that Sylvia should have a sister who could only speak French. The little Durands were a more difficult problem. She did not so much mind feeling awkward with grown-up people through having to sit dumb, but children stared at her so, if she said nothing; and if she talked, they stared at her still more; she kept feeling that she ought to stroke them or pat them, which might offend their mother. She found ultimately that they were best amused by her taking out two false teeth she had, one of which once was lost, because the eldest boy would play dice with them.
Elène gave Sylvia news of the rest of the family, though, since all the four married sisters were in different towns in France and she had seen none of them for ten years, it was not very fresh news. Valentine, in whose career Sylvia was most interested, was being very well entretenue by a marseillais who had bought her an apartment that included a porcelain-tiled bath-room; she might be considered lucky, for the man with whom she had left Lille had been a rascal. It happened that her news of Valentine was fresh and authentic, because a lilleoise who lived in Bruxelles had recently been obliged to go to Marseilles over some legal dispute and, meeting Valentine, had been invited to see her apartment. It was a pity that she was not married, but her position was the next best thing to marriage. Of the Bassompierres Elène had heard nothing for years, but what would interest Sylvia were some family papers and photographs that Sylvia’s father had sent to her as the eldest daughter when their mother died, together with an old-fashioned photograph of their grandmother. From these papers it seemed that an English milord and not Bassompierre had really been their grandfather. Sylvia being half English already, it might not interest her so much, but for herself to know she had English blood l’avait beaucoup impressioné, so many English tourists came to her pension.