On one occasion Virginia did bring down a long “article” (I don’t know what else to call it) composed of about ten yards of white net, embroidered here and there with large beads, an artificial rose sewn on to one corner of the curtain-like thing, a gilt-metal fringe suggestive of shoelace tags all around the edges. She couldn’t quite understand how she came by it, she said. She remembered an energetic ultra-elegant shop-assistant, somewhere, displaying it before her, with the information that it was a “slumber swirl,” and assuring her, condescendingly, that it was the very latest, and absolutely sweet, and just the thing for outdoors in the summer. Virginia said she agreed with her, she was sure; knowing her own sweet and plastic disposition, she would certainly have agreed with her; she was thankful to say she wasn’t one of those people who perpetually disagree with other people. But—she had no recollection of having attached her name and address to the wisp, much less of having paid for it! Still, the energetic damsel had sent it home—and here it was!
Ursula, after one glance at the confection, hastily turned her eyes away and announced that, for her part, she didn’t consider it—well, quite adequate!
Her sister explained that it wasn’t supposed to be worn that way; and she arranged herself with closed eyes on the sofa to show us how it would look when draped over her—head and all—as she rested in the hammock. It took a lot of adjusting so as to avoid getting some knobbly bead motif just under her ear, and to prevent the shoe-lace tags attacking the under-side of the face. And when she had at last found a spot of unembellished net on which to lay her rose-leaf cheek, she was afraid to move for fear of splitting the frail net.
Ursula merely snorted.
When next I saw the “slumber swirl,” part of it had been converted into a meat-safe of irreproachable moral character, Ursula having utilised the frame of our getting-worn-out one for the purpose.
No; our luggage is only trifling, and only consists of just what we need. Abigail takes mine and her own to Paddington in a bus, which also picks up the luggage of the other two girls en route. Individually, the details do not seem much, but I confess, when I see it dumped all together on the platform, the aggregate looks somewhat nondescript.
There will be four large hat-boxes (or five if Abigail brings more than one); anything from three to seven trunks; Abigail’s collapsible straw basket; a bundle of umbrellas and sunshades; the dog, in his travelling basket; a chip basket containing pots of mysterious seedlings Virginia has been specially raising in town (which usually get upset once or twice on the way, and have been known to turn out docks). There is sure to be a cardboard box for one of Abigail’s best Jap silk Sunday frocks that she doesn’t want to get crushed; a string bag containing Abigail’s novels and snippety weeklies, her crochet, a few oranges, two bananas, some chocolate, and whatever other refreshment she will need on the journey; a brown-paper parcel holding a few articles of wearing apparel, also belonging to Abigail, that she only remembered at the last minute, and cook did up for her.
Then Ursula is sure to bring some contribution to the larder—perhaps tomatoes and a cake. Naturally, there is our lunch basket; and I, personally, never feel complete unless I have my leather dispatch-box beside me. I also take a suit-case containing my mackintosh—in case it rains when I arrive—books and papers which I never read, knitting, and similar necessities for the journey; it is also useful as a final receptacle for oddments I omitted to pack elsewhere. Virginia and Ursula bring similar suit-cases, for similar reasons.
Sometimes Abigail springs surprises on us at the last minute. “Whatever have you there?” I asked one day, as she joined us on the Paddington platform, a jangling parcel in one hand that sounded like a badly cracked bell, and a large protrusion—silent, fortunately—embraced in the other arm.