Out in the view, from behind the two-ply curtains of silk and of night, a cock crew, and then another; and what they said was just John Peel over again—that ghosts wander in dewy English glades, and that the Past is dead, dead, dead.
5
Concha came into Teresa’s room to have her gown unfastened: “You looked heavenly,” she said, “I love you in mauve.”
Teresa tugged at the hooks in silence; and then said: “Is it impossible to teach Parker to unsqueeze hooks when they come back from Pullar’s?”
“Quite. I nearly died with the effort of getting them to fasten.”
Then outside there was a familiar muffled step, and a knock. In the mirror Teresa saw a look of annoyance pass over Concha’s face.
In came the Doña, in a white dressing-gown, her face illuminated by the flame of her candle, and looking not unlike one of Zurburán’s Carthusian monks.
“Well?” she said.
“Well darling,” answered Concha, with exaggerated nonchalance, adding to Teresa, “won’t they undo?”
The Doña put down her candle, and seated herself heavily on the bed.