“I’d love some tennis.”
She picked up some pattern-paper, turned it, folded it, snipped it with scissors, refolded it, snipped it again, and then shook it out as a sort of cape or shawl of lace.
“That is what the negresses wear in San Jacinto,” she said. “They cut the linen and wear it over scarlet; it looks just like lace at a little distance.”
“You are clever,” Hi said, “to cut it all out like that. I wish you’d show me how you did it.”
“Like this,” she said, picking up another piece of paper.
“The English are always wanting to do things,” Rosa said. “They never say, ‘Here’s a perfect day, let’s think about perfection.’ They say, ‘Here, it’s stopped raining, let’s do something.’ ”
“You did your share when you were in England,” he said, “so you needn’t talk.”
“She seems to have been busy this morning,” Carlotta said. “We’ll talk about perfection, if you like.”
“I don’t want to talk, but to listen,” Rosa said. “Suppose you sing.”
Carlotta went to the piano and sang a couple of Spanish songs, one strange, the other grim, both haunting. Hi thought them the most beautiful things he had ever heard, sung by the most marvellous voice. He could not turn his eyes from her face and throat. She was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. He felt himself to be vile and a boor, and unfit to walk the same planet. He wondered whether he could possibly take the pattern-papers which she had cut, or the scissors she had used. He stared and stared. He knew it to be rude, but could not help it. “My God, she is beautiful,” he thought. “She is lovely, lovely. O God, I wish I could fight for her or do something for her.”