Amidst a gaping silence Ann turned to the steps.
She could hear the breathing of the bystanders, feel their resentful stares burning her face. She had spoiled sport, embarrassed, turned the frolic she should have led into a ceremony they could not follow. She had drawn the whip of her superiority, flourished it, laid it across their shoulders. Only the gramophone continued to spout its ghastly pleasantry, like a clown mouthing in a death-chamber.
‘We’ve broad beans like BUN-ions, cab-BAH-ges and HON-ions . . .’
Before this master-stroke of Satire Ann could have burst into tears. She had striven wildly to rise to the occasion, only to shatter—to let the whole thing down. . . . The awful hopelessness of her position flamed. Envy, Hatred and Malice, then, had been appointed her equerries. Not only was she to suffer: she was to cause suffering, breed discontent, induce ill-will. The efforts which she must make were doomed before they were made not only to fail but to turn to her condemnation. And she could do nothing, because there was nothing to be done. She had sold her birthright, but she could not sell her birth. Her style, her speech, her plumage could not be doffed. She was a peacock in daw’s feathers—and the daws would fiercely resent her condescension.
‘But YES! We have no bananas. . . . We have no bananas to-day.’
‘Would resent’? Were resenting. . . .
As she crossed the pavement—
“Oh, ’aughty,” said someone. “Sten’ beck fer the Lady Ermyntrude.”
There was a stifled giggle.
Her face flaming, Ann stepped to her hostess, who was palpably intoxicated with the prospect of communion with her guest and determined unmistakably to adorn a plane upon which lack of opportunity alone had hitherto prevented her from ambling. It was important that her new niece should at once appreciate that there was not the slightest necessity for her to step down. Here and now she must be made to realize that her aunt was fully qualified to step up.