There was a moment’s silence. Teresa bit her lip to repress a laugh, Mrs Mallison, crimson-cheeked, checked herself on the verge of angry words, and cast a glance at her husband.
“My dear,” said the Major courteously, “I wish you a very pleasant time. I will order a fly to take your luggage.”
No one accompanied Mary to the station. Mrs Mallison detained Teresa on the score of draughts. Everybody knew that stations were the most draughty places in the world; since there was now no one to help, she herself must take Teresa a walk. They could go round by the fish shop, and order a sole. Since she was to be left alone to cope with the household, she must get into the habit of fitting things in. The Major retired to his study, obviously ill at ease, and reappeared only at the last moment, to peck at his daughter’s cheek with chilly lips, and reiterate, “My dear, I wish you a pleasant time,” but Mary caught a glimpse of his bald head at the window as the fly crawled down the lane, and it did not raise her spirits to remember that she had wounded her father’s heart. That morning, for the first time in her life, Mary travelled in a first-class carriage, an experience far from exciting, since it meant remaining in solitary splendour for the whole of the journey. She found little improvement in comfort, but so far from regretting the expenditure of extra shillings, dwelt on it as the only satisfying part of the proceeding. It was a real joy to her to have disbursed eighteen shillings, when only six were necessary, for to a woman who has escaped the miser taint, the mere action of spending has a lure, and Mary had counted pennies all her life. She sat staring out of the dusty windows, wondering even at this eleventh hour where she should go when she reached her destination. The question was not solved, when she found herself seated in a taxi, with the driver’s head peering through the window, awaiting instructions.
“Could you—I want to go to an hotel, a good hotel. It must be very good, but not—not too fashionable,” said Mary, with a blush, and the kindly Cockney ran a twinkling glance over her attire, and took in the position in a trice.
“You leave it to me, ma’am. I’ll fix you up,” he said genially, and sprang to his wheel. “Northumberland Avenue’s her touch,” he said to himself with a grin, and presently Mary was alighting before a great, gloomy-looking building, and entering a hall which to her inexperienced eyes seemed alarmingly large and luxurious. There were groups of people sitting here and there, who had apparently no other occupation but to stare at new-comers; but after the most cursory glance no one stared at Mary. The fashionably attired women averted their eyes with an air of having wasted trouble for nothing.
At the office, the clerk gave the same quick scrutiny, and saw a chance of letting an unpopular room. He rang a bell, gave instructions to an underling, and Mary mounted in a lift to inspect a grim, box-like apartment, papered in yellow, from which the nearness of a neighbouring building excluded every ray of sun. The smart chambermaid played her part with skill, throwing open the wardrobe, and arranging towels on the stand with a confidence which froze Mary’s objections unsaid. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing to say; perhaps all hotel bedrooms were alike!
Mary washed her hands, smoothed her already smooth hair, and betook herself to the great dining-hall where luncheon was in process. The room was more than half filled, and the waiter led the way to a table some distance from the door, a dreaded ordeal on which Mary wasted much unnecessary nervousness. Despite her experience in the hall, she still dreaded the scrutiny of strange eyes, and in imagination felt herself the observed of all observers. A strange figure in Chumley High Street attracted general curiosity; to walk up the church aisle in a new dress, was to hear every pew creak behind one. At the private hotels which she had visited at the seaside, the arrival of a new inmate roused the whole establishment to animation; to a lesser extent Mary was prepared to be of importance in London also. But no one looked at her. Not a single head turned as she trotted with short, nervous steps in the wake of the foreign waiter; when, tentatively, she lifted her eyes from her plate, diners to right and left were consuming their food with an utter disregard of her presence. Mary took courage, and began to look about on her own account; presently she realised that no courage was required. Seated in the midst of a crowd she was virtually as much alone as on a desert island. After lunch she dressed herself, and went out into the street. On the broad outer step of the hotel she hesitated, uncertain in which direction to turn, and the porter enquired if she wished a taxi. It seemed easier to assent than refuse, so she allowed herself to be assisted into the tonneau of a passing car, and for the second time that day faced the problem of deciding where to go. The reflection of her own hat in a strip of mirror settled the question,—the hat which had aged unaccountably since morning! She directed the man to drive to a good milliner’s, and was set down before the door of a noted robber in head-gear.
The next half-hour was a nightmare of discomfort. It began with the opening of the swing door, and the view into the luxurious, the terrifying luxurious salon within. The floor was covered with the softest of carpets, cushioned lounges were set round the walls, reflected in mirrors were the figures of nymph-like forms, with wonderful coiffures of gold and auburn. The same mirrors reflected the small, navy-blue figure standing in the doorway, and the contrast was not encouraging.
One of the nymphs floated forward, bowed Mary to a chair, and took off her hat and veil, the which she placed in horrible conspicuousness on a marble-topped table. This done she floated away, leaving Mary to face her own reflection, and give surreptitious touches to her flattened locks. Never had she harboured any delusions about her own appearance, but it had remained for that moment to show her the extent of her limitations. When the nymph came back she bore in her hand a helmet erection, from which two brush-like feathers protruded at unexpected angles. Mary’s exclamation expressed unmitigated distaste, but the nymph was plainly accustomed to such manifestations, and not to be discouraged thereby. She merely proceeded to drop it in place, like a basin covering a mould, remarking in airy tones that “it looked different on the head.”
It did. Sheer horror at her own appearance gave Mary strength to tear it off, and declare that nothing would induce her to be seen in such a monstrosity, whereupon the nymph smiled with an ineffable forbearance, and produced another model more exaggerated than the first. It was during the sixth sortie for fresh supplies that Mary seized her own hat, and thrust in the pins with feverish haste. Not another moment would she remain to be tortured. Was not her mind already stored with six nightmare portraits of her own visage, staring horror-stricken beneath preposterous erections? She would say that she was pressed for time; that she would call again; that she was sorry that she cared for nothing... but the nymph on returning allowed no time for explanations. She exhibited no surprise at the visible signs of the customer’s revolt; it appeared indeed that she was prepared for their appearance, and for her own counter-movement. She wheeled round, sent a Marconi signal towards the far end of the room, and from behind the shelter of a screen stepped a new and formidable apparition, that of a woman of middle age, of more than middle age, for beneath the elaborate coiffure of golden hair, the large, chalk-white face was deeply lined and furrowed. It was a horrible face, hiding beneath a stereotyped smile the marks of a cruel, unprincipled soul. To Mary’s country-bred eyes there was something inhuman not only in the face, but also in the figure. The enormous bust was moulded into a sheath of black satin, and thence to the hips the body presented a straight, unbending line. The effect was like the trunk of a tree, rather than that of a woman,—solid, shapeless, unyielding, and the tightness about the lower limbs, the smallness of the silk-shod feet, added to the unnaturalness of the effect.