Chapter 7 - Page 2

hidden art, and the piano always played the same sonata. In order to buy one pair of elastic stockings for Mrs. Page, widow, aged sixty–three, in receipt of five shillings out–door relief, and help from her only son employed in Messrs. Mackie’s dye–works, suffering in winter with his chest, letters must be written, columns filled up in the same round, simple hand that wrote in Mr. Letts’s diary how the weather was fine, the children demons, and Jacob Flanders unworldly. Clara Durrant procured the stockings, played the sonata, filled the vases, fetched the pudding, left the cards, and when the great invention of paper flowers to swim in finger–bowls was discovered, was one of those who most marvelled at their brief lives.

Nor were there wanting poets to celebrate the theme. Edwin Mallett, for example, wrote his verses ending:

And read their doom in Chloe’s eyes,

which caused Clara to blush at the first reading, and to laugh at the second, saying that it was just like him to call her Chloe when her name was Clara. Ridiculous young man! But when, between ten and eleven on a rainy morning, Edwin Mallett laid his life at her feet she ran out of the room and hid herself in her bedroom, and Timothy below could not get on with his work all that morning on account of her sobs.

“Which is the result of enjoying yourself,” said Mrs. Durrant severely, surveying the dance programme all scored with the same initials, or rather they were different ones this time—R.B. instead of E.M.; Richard Bonamy it was now, the young man with the Wellington nose.

“But I could never marry a man with a nose like that,” said Clara.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Durrant.

“But I am too severe,” she thought to herself. For Clara, losing all vivacity, tore up her dance programme and threw it in the fender.

Such were the very serious consequences of the invention of paper flowers to swim in bowls.

“Please,” said Julia Eliot, taking up her position by the curtain almost opposite the door, “don’t introduce me. I like to look on. The amusing thing,” she went on, addressing Mr. Salvin, who, owing to his lameness, was accommodated with a chair, “the amusing thing about a party is to watch the people—coming and going, coming and going.”

“Last time we met,” said Mr. Salvin, “was at the Farquhars. Poor lady! She has much to put up with.”

“Doesn’t she look charming?” exclaimed Miss Eliot, as Clara Durrant passed them.

“And which of them ...?” asked Mr. Salvin, dropping his voice and speaking in quizzical tones.

“There are so many ...” Miss Eliot replied. Three young men stood at the doorway looking about for their