Now, would it be a comfort to Pia to know that this man was by birth her social equal, or would it, in view of the fact that he had in some way shown her what she had called “a glimpse of the hairy hoof,” appear to her an added insult. Trix pondered the question deeply, turning it in her mind, and sighing prodigiously more than once in the process.
And then, all at once, she opened her eyes. Where, after all, was the use of troubling her head on that score. Comfort or not, who was to tell Pia? Most assuredly Trix couldn’t. She had considered that question already, weeks ago in fact, and answered it in the negative. Of course it was quite possible that she was being somewhat over-sensitive and ultra-scrupulous on the subject. But there it was. It was the way she regarded matters.
Trix sighed deeply. It was all terribly perplexing, and Tibby’s letter was quite horribly pathetic. Anyhow she would go down to Woodleigh as soon as she possibly could.
She had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she had quite forgotten the passing of time. It was with a start of surprise, therefore, that she heard the door open. At the selfsame moment the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. Trix got to her feet.
“My dearest,” exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, “not gone to bed yet! And all the beauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. Not that you need it except in the way of preservation, dearest. For I always did tell you, regardless of making you conceited which I do not think I do do, that I have admired you from the time you were in your cradle. Well, food is the next best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. I am famished, positively famished. And I ate an excellent dinner, I know; but Bridge is always hungry work. Bring the tray to the fire, dearest. I see James has put it all ready. And ham, which I adore. It may be indigestible, though I never believe it with things I like. Not merely because I like to think so, but because it is true. Nature knows best, as she knew when I was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which always upset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are crying up tremendously nowadays.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. Trix brought the tray to a small table near her.
“And how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? Not dull, I hope? But the fire and a book are always the best of companions I think, to say nothing of one’s own thoughts, though some people do consider day-dreaming waste of time. So narrow-minded. They read novels which are only other people’s day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as saving library subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certain superiority in feeling they are your own. On the whole more satisfactory, too. Even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always be arranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. Though for my part it should always be happy. If you’re happy you want it happy, and if you’re not, you still want it to make you. If it weren’t for the difficulty of dividing into chapters, I’d write my own day-dreams, and no doubt have a big sale. But publishers have an absurd prejudice in favour of chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty titles. Quite brain-racking. A dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she always thought the title the most difficult part of a book.”
She helped herself to a glass of sherry and two sandwiches as she concluded her speech.
“And did you really have a pleasant evening?” said Trix, politely interrogative.
Mrs. Arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively.