Mr. Bunnard considered this remark with a smile that revealed for the fraction of a second an excellent set of artificial teeth.
‘Ah, you haven’t forgotten our little talk then.... But you’ve got a lot to learn yet. Seven planes and all interpenetrating. Is Hypatia at home, Sheila?’
‘My dear Dick! She is at the Lodge, of course, and Rosemary is with her. I expect we had better not wait tea for them. They’ll probably have something in Cairo.’
‘Perhaps Hassan will get us some tea,’ ventured Mr. Bunnard, ‘if we ask him.’
As though to his cue, the white-smocked, red-tarbooshed Hassan, the Berber servant, appeared at this moment in the doorway bringing tea on a large tray. In response to Mrs. Fairfield’s nod he shuffled noiselessly into the room, bowing and smirking in his expansive Oriental fashion, and set out the tea-things on an occasional table.
‘Seven planes and all interpenetrating,’ said Mr. Bunnard, appearing to extract a peculiar comfort from the idea. ‘We generally take tea in the French manner—or is it the Russian?—with lemon juice instead of milk. By the by, I’ve got some Thought Forms up in my den, Redshawe, that might interest you. Angry, affectionate, ambitious, pure, envious, sensual, and so on: all accurately coloured, you know. I’ve spent a lot of time on them. You’re not eating anything. I can recommend the shortbread: it came all the way from Scotland.’
Mrs. Fairfield, roused by a sound outside, turned in the act of filling Redshawe’s cup for the fifth time, to look out of the window.
‘Here are the truants,’ she said, ‘and we’ve nearly finished.’ And Redshawe, following her glance, saw the miraculous Rosemary standing on the gravel path outside. To his excited imagination it seemed that she was but for an instant poised lightly upon this globe before flying back to the paradise from which she had descended.
Then indeed came the whirlwind followed by the still small voice. Mrs. Bunnard, tall, angular, and, though quiet, masterful, with conscious power invaded the room: power which, however, broke like a spent wave on the adamant rock of Redshawe’s absorption in Rosemary Fairfield.
‘Mr. Redshawe, how are you?’ said Mrs. Bunnard, grasping his hand. ‘We have never been introduced, but I know you perfectly. This is my niece.’