“It is cool. Ah, a letter from Iris.” Like a magpie she had seen the letter beside my chair and, without asking permission, had seized it and read it through quickly. “I admire a girl who types,” she said, letting fall the letter. “I suppose they all do now though it seems like only yesterday that, next to opening a tearoom, one typed, working for men, all of whom made advances. That was when we had to wear corsets and hatpins. One discouraged while the other quite protected.” Clarissa chuckled at some obscene memory.
“I wonder if Paul can keep Cave from wandering off to some impossible place.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.” She picked at the tea sandwiches suspiciously, curling back the top slices of bread to see what was underneath: tentatively, she bit into deviled ham; she chewed; she swallowed; she was not disappointed; she wolfed another sandwich, talking all the while. “Poor Cave is a captive now. His disciples are in full command. Even Mohammed, as strong-headed as he was, finally ended up a perfect pawn in the hands of Abu Bekr and the women, especially the women.”
“I’m not so sure about Cave. He....”
“Does what they tell him, especially Iris.”
“Iris? But I should have said she was the only one who never tried to influence him.”
Clarissa laughed unpleasantly. A moth flew into her artificial auburn hair; unerringly, she found it with one capable hand and quickly snuffed out its life in a puff of gray dust from broken wings. She wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. The day was full of moths but, fortunately, none came near us again, preferring lawn and trees to us. “You are naive, Eugene,” she said, her little murder done. “It’s your nicest quality. In theory you are remarkably aware of human character; yet, when you’re confronted with the most implausible appearance, you promptly take it for the reality.”
I was irritated by this and also by the business of the sandwich, not to mention the murder of the moth; I looked at Clarissa with momentary dislike. “I was not aware....” I began in a chilled voice but she interrupted me with an airy wave of her hand.
“I forget no one likes to be called naive ... calculating, dishonest, treacherous, people rather revel in those designations, but to be thought trusting....” She clapped her hands as though to punctuate her meaning; then, after a full stop, she went on more soberly. “Iris is the one to look out for. Our own sweet, self-effacing, dedicated Iris. I adore her; I always have, but she’s up to no good.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”