“Cecily’s a fool,” she said, gravely,—“that is, if she wants to keep her husband.” She glanced sharply at Rose, who was sipping her tea with exasperating indifference. “She had driven Robert to try reprisals, I suppose.” There was a slight pause, during which Rose took some more tea-cake. “That’s what every one imagines, anyhow,” continued Lady Wilmot, with a distinct access of sharpness. “It’s a dangerous game.” She shook her head as a virtuous matron might have done, and Rose struggled with a smile. “I’ve no patience with wives who allow attractive women to enter their homes under the pretext of work which they ought to be doing themselves,” she concluded, in an exasperated tone, as she glanced at her neighbor’s blank face. “Why on earth doesn’t Cecily act as secretary to her own husband?”
“Because she’s writing a novel of her own, and hasn’t time,” said Rose, speaking at last, to give, from Lady Wilmot’s point of view, an utterly valueless piece of information.
“Ridiculous!” she ejaculated. “I should have thought there was enough scribbling in the family. Why doesn’t she look after her husband, and be a companion and helpmeet to him, instead of allowing another woman to come in and give the sympathy which only a wife—and all that kind of thing?” she concluded, hastily, becoming suddenly conscious of her companion’s amused eyes. It was a triumph for Rose. She had actually driven Lady Wilmot, of all people, into the ridiculous position of defending the domestic hearth, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that no one felt her position more keenly.
She rose from the table, extending her hand with great cordiality.
“Thank you so much for your delicious tea,” she said. “And I’m sure you’ll forgive me for rushing off in this unceremonious way. My train goes at half-past seven, and I must get Cecily in, as well as socks and shoes and sashes and things. No, don’t move. There’s such a crush to get through, and I can find my way out—truly. Good-bye.” She was gone, threading her way between the tea-tables, and smiling back at Lady Wilmot, who instantly summoned a bewildered waiter, upon whom she made a vague attack for indefinite shortcomings.
Rose stepped into a hansom with a smile which already contained more bitterness than amusement. She was reviewing facts as interpreted by Lady Wilmot and company.
CHAPTER XIII
PHILIPPA’S “studio” was a somewhat uncomfortable apartment with a north light. Its walls were covered with brown paper, upon which were pinned hasty little sketches by the latest geniuses. One recognized the latest genius by the newness of the drawing-pins; the genius before last had generally lost one or even two of these aids to stability, and hung at a neglected angle. Above the mantelpiece there was a framed photograph of Rossetti’s Proserpine, whom Philippa was often thought to resemble. The floor of the room was stained, and over it at intervals were laid pieces of striped material of pseudo-Eastern manufacture, fringed and flimsy. The furniture was scanty, but high-principled in tone. It was that sort of uncomfortable furniture which has “exquisite simplicity of line,” and is affected by people who are more used to sitting on boards than sofas. There was an easel in a prominent position, and a cupboard with a glass front in a corner of the room, revealing various cups and bowls of coarse earthenware and foreign peasant manufacture. These were the cooking and eating utensils considered proper to the Simple Life.
It was the expense of the Simple Life which Philippa was at the moment considering, as she sat curled up on the hearth-rug before the fire, a heap of bills and other annoying documents in her lap. It was half-past three in the afternoon, but she wore a dressing-gown of rather doubtful cleanliness, and her hair was bunched up as she had twisted and pinned it when she got out of bed.
Philippa belonged to the eternal art student class; that class which subsists on very little talent and no income; the class which includes girls who would be better employed in domestic service, as well as those whom a genuine “feeling” for art has rendered unfit for any other occupation than that of painfully striving to express themselves—generally in vain. Though a member of this great sisterhood, by the possession of various rather exceptional gifts, Philippa had managed to deviate from its normal routine of monotony. She had beauty, and a mind wide enough to hold vague aspirations, as well as a useful shrewdness. Long ago she had made two discoveries. First, that seventy pounds a year is a totally inadequate income. Secondly, that infrequent work is not the best means of supplementing it. There are other ways, and Philippa had tried most of them.