Female friendship -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
Across the large, well-lit room, towering above every one around him,
she saw the head and shoulders of Alymer Hermon. All about her, as she
moved towards him, she heard the low-voiced query: “Who is he?”
No society beauty at her zenith could have caused greater interest. He
was looking grave, too, and thoughtful, which suited him better than
laughter, giving him something of a look apart, and banishing all
suggestion of the conceit and self-satisfaction that would have spoilt
him. Then he caught sight of Hal, and instantly all his face lit up,
and a twinkle shone in his eyes as he edged towards her.
“How late you are! I thought you were never coming. Did your hair
require an extra half-hour? I suppose you’ve been tearing it out by the
roots over your faithless swain.”
“I don’t know what you mean, and anyhow I shouldn’t be such a fool as
to tear my own hair out by the roots for any one. If hair is coming out
in that fashion, it shall be his roots.”
“Come and sit down. I’ll soon find you a chair.”
“What’s the good of that? We can’t converse unless you sit on the
floor. I work too hard to spend my evening shouting banalities at the
ceiling.”
“Well, let’s hunt for a couch; there are plenty here on ordinary
occasions. Isn’t it a poser where all the furniture goes to at a
‘beano’ like this! There’s nothing in the hall, nor in the dining-room;
and there doesn’t seem to be much here. Let’s make for the lounge.”
“But I can’t take you away. I shall get my face scratched. You were
made to be looked at, and half these silly people are staring their
eyes out in your direction. I don’t know how you put up with it so
serenely. I should want to bite them all. If I were a man, and had been
burdened with an appearance like yours, I should want to hit Life in
the face for it.”
“Don’t be silly. What does it matter? It pleases them, and it doesn’t
hurt me. I get my own back a little anyway... when I want to”—with a
low, significant laugh.
“Oh of course lots of women are in love with you,”—with a contemptuous
sniff; “but if I were a man I wouldn’t give tuppence for the woman who
made me a present of her affections. You miss all the fun of the chase,
and the victory. It must be deadly dull.”
“That’s what Lorraine has sometimes said; but what can I do? Shall I
paint my face black?”
“Oh, I’ve seen you look black enough, but it’s rather becoming than
otherwise. Anyhow, it isn’t insipid. But you’ve grown quite manly
lately, I suppose. I hear about you occasionally positively working
hard. Heavens!—what you owe to Lorraine!”
“I do,” fervently.
“Then why in the world don’t you look after her a bit? I turned up
unexpectedly at half-past one today, and found her sobbing her eyes
out.”
“You found Lorraine sobbing her eyes out...” incredulously.
“I did. She told me not to tell you, as it was only nerves—but of
course it wasn’t. You know as well as I that Lorraine doesn’t suffer
from weepy nerves. It’s worry again; and she is looking thoroughly
ill.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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