The world-wide air was azure
And all the brooks ran gold.’ ”
“That’s from A Shropshire Lad,” cried Olivia.
“Of course. So why shouldn’t you have come from the wind of morning, the azure world-wide air or the golden brook?”
“That’s beautiful of you,” said Olivia. “Well, why shouldn’t I? It’s more romantic and imaginative than the commonplace old sea. The sea has been overdone. I used to look at it once a year, and, now I come to think of it, it always seemed to be self-conscious, trying to live up to its reputation. But ‘the wind of the morning——’ Anyhow, here I am.”
“Blown to London by the wind of a Shropshire morning.”
Olivia’s spirit danced in the talk. With his national touch on the lighter emotions, Mauregard drew from her an exposition of the Dryad’s sensations on sudden confrontation with modern life. To talk well is a great gift; to compel others to talk well is a greater; and the latter gift was Mauregard’s. Olivia put food into her mouth, but whether it was fish or flesh or fowl she knew not. When her host broke the spell by an announcement in her ear that he had a couple of boxes for “Jazz-Jazz,” she became aware that she was eating partridge.
Mr. Sydney Rooke talked of women’s clothes, of which he had an expert knowledge. Lady Barraclough chimed in. Olivia, fresh from the welter, spoke as one in authority. Now and again she caught Lydia’s eye across the table and received an approving nod. The elderly General regarded her with amused admiration. She began to taste the first-fruits of social success. She drove in a taxi to the theatre with the Barracloughs and Mrs. Fane Sylvester and sat with them in a box during the first act of the gay revue. For the second act there was a change of company and she found herself next to the General. He had served in India and was familiar with the names of her mother’s people. What Anglo-Indian was not? Long ago he had met an uncle of hers; dead, poor chap. This social placing gave her a throb of pleasure, setting her, at least, in a stranger’s eyes, in her mother’s sphere. The performance over, they parted great friends.
General Wigram and Mrs. Fane Sylvester excusing themselves from going on to Percy’s, the others crowded into Sydney Rooke’s limousine. The crash of jazz music welcomed them. Already a few couples were dancing; others were flocking in from the theatres. They supped merrily. Sydney Rooke pointed out to Olivia’s wondering eyes the stars of the theatrical firmament who condescended to walk the parquet floor of the famous night club. He also indicated here and there a perfectly attired youth as a professional dancer.
“On the stage?”