“I am sure, Miss Norah, I beg ten thousand pardons. Nothing further from my mind than to consider myself, in any way; only too proud and happy to be allowed to consider you; quite a mistake if anything can have induced you to suppose the contrary. Fact is, I was thinking of the Major’s dinner.”
“The Major’s dinner? What about the Major’s dinner?”
“He ordered it at seven.”
“Did he? And how does that interest you?”
“It doesn’t—not at all!—not in the slightest!—not in the very least degree!—do assure you! Might I—might I venture to hope, Miss Norah, that you—you—you’ll do me the honour of accepting these few flowers?”
Thereupon they all came crowding round me again, each with a floral offering.
“Did I not ask you not to come too close? I do not care to be conscious of another person’s proximity.” They slunk back, like dogs before a whip. “I see, Mr Hammond, that you have camellias. I don’t like camellias. I think they’re vulgar. You might put them on the table. Nor do I care for stephanotis, I am obliged to you, Major Tibbet. Thank you, Mr Rumford, I have had some roses given me this afternoon, already. You might put them with the other flowers on the table. You are very good, Mr Purchase, but obviously Parma violets do not go with black. They suggest mourning. You can hardly wish me to go into mourning at the prospect of spending part of an evening with you. I am not sure, Mr Carter, that I care for lilies-of-the-valley either. They are not quite so bad as camellias, but they are a little wooden. Don’t you think so? Stay! Let me look at them. After all, they do go with black. Perhaps I will wear them, since there is nothing else to wear.”
Even in my then mood it did seem incredible that they should endure my impertinence—worse, my ingratitude—and never show a sign of resentment. But something seemed to tell me that I might say and do exactly what I pleased, and they would still crouch at my feet, ready to endure anything rather than that I should not notice them at all. I was beginning, already, to understand what it is which makes a woman love the sense of power, the consciousness of being able to do as she likes with men. As is the case, I have heard, with some beggars on horseback, I was disposed to ride my steed for all it was worth, with cruel and scandalous disregard of the possibility of the poor brute’s breaking down upon the road.
Pulling Mr Carter’s carefully-arranged little nosegay to pieces I tossed some of the lilies aside and pinned the rest against my bodice—the five watching me with a queer sort of speechlessness, which nearly moved me to laughter.
“Now, let me understand what the programme is for this evening. Aren’t we to have some dinner?”