The lady of the basement flatVaizey, George de Horne, Mrs.
General
The lady of the basement flat
Vaizey, George de Horne, Mrs.
Irish -- England -- Fiction; Single women -- Fiction
I laughed; I sang; the depression of the last weeks fell from me like a
cloak, and I faced the future glad and undismayed. With the reading of
that letter had come an end to indecision. I now knew exactly what I
was about to do. Write to Charmion, and fix the earliest possible date
for a meeting in town. From town we would inspect Pastimes, the while I
instituted inquiries for a suitable flat. The two homes secured, I
would then return to The Clough, and divide my furniture into two
batches, send them off to their several destinations, and follow myself,
hot foot. It would take some time to put both dwellings in order, but
it would be interesting work. I love the making of interiors, and if
Pastimes must be fitted beautifully to do justice to itself, still more
would it be needful to turn the uninspiring "flat" into a haven of
comfort and cheer.
At this precise moment my prancing brought me in front of the long
mirror, and what I beheld therein brought me up with a gasp. Twenty-six
is quite a venerable age, but at moments of happiness and exhilaration
it has a disconcerting trick of switching back to seventeen. That
smiling, bright-eyed, pink-and-white-cheeked girl in the glass, with two
long pigtails of hair hanging to her waist, looked really absurdly
juvenile! Given a small stretch of imagination, you might have believed
that she was a flapper preparing for her last term at school; by no
possible mental effort could you have placed her as a douce maiden lady,
living alone in London, devoting herself to good works in a manner as
adventurous as it was unusual.
Mothers of children would insinuate that I was a child myself; troubled
matrons would purse their lips, and say, "I can't tell _you_, my dear.
You are too young." Certainly, oh, most certainly, men of all ages
would put me down as a designing minx! In vain industry, self-sacrifice
and generosity--that young face, that bright youthful colouring would
nullify all my efforts.
It was true--it was true! I looked, as Aunt Eliza had pointed out, a
dozen years too young for the part. People would stare, people would
talk, people would advise me to go back and live with my aunts, and wait
ten years.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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