CHAPTER XI
ONE HOUR OF HAPPINESS
Ursula descended from a cab in the full light of the early summer evening, and hurried away into the Van Trossarts’ gloomy hall. Her shoulders blushed as the footman took her wrap. It felt like undressing.
“Juffrouw Rovers,” said the Baroness, beaming like a crimson sun, “I am glad you have come. My niece is—is occupied. Take off your gloves, my dear, and help me to arrange these flowers.”
Ursula had looked round in terror for Gerard. She must dine with him en famille, perhaps sit next to him. There was no help for it. Yet she trembled to think of him. To her simple maidenhood, familiar with sermons on sin in the abstract, he was a sudden incarnation of infamy.
The Baroness buzzed and bubbled over her flower-trays, her fat arms all dimples, her fat cheeks all smiles. She chattered about this evening’s party, which was Helena’s party—“as if anybody in Drum would give a dance in July!”—but Helena was so gay she could never sit still for an hour: a nice dance she would lead her husband if only the husband himself was addicted to pleasure. Well, old people were apt to get dull. No wonder Helena fared farther in search of diversion. And she laughed to herself, and winked to herself (a difficult, but by no means impossible, proceeding) while talking to Ursula in the pragmatical cackle with which hens of all ages surround a new-laid matrimonial egg.
Ursula, who was barely acquainted with the Freule van Trossart, could only display a perfunctory interest in that young lady’s possible prospects. Harriet had told her that, according to rumor, the Freule was “as good as engaged” to a young politician.
“It is a living romance,” the Freule’s clear voice was heard saying on the landing, “and a thousand times more amusing, ma vieille, than all your dressed-up dead ones together.”
She came into the room with her arm through that of her shrivelled governess, Gerard bringing up the rear. The little Frenchwoman looked depressed as she slid away into a corner. The fat Baroness rustled across to her in a perfect crackle of crimson. “My dear Papotier, is it not delightful?” she said, with tears in her eyes.
“Mon Dieu, madame, yes,” replied the governess, “it is the first chapter.” And, to herself, she added, “For me it is the last.”