CHAPTER TEN

oblikes.Goodpeoplelikeit.Dowdywomenwhodon'tmindhowtheycrosstheirlegsreadTomJones—amysticbookforthereissomething,Fannythought,aboutbookswhichifIhadbeeneducatedIcouldhaveliked—muchbetterthanear-ringsandflowers,shesighed,thinkingofthecorridorsattheSladeandthefancy-dressdancenextweek.Shehadnothingtowear. Theyarereal,thoughtFannyElmer,settingherfeetonthemantelpiece.Somepeopleare.Nickperhaps,onlyhewassostupid.Andwomennever—exceptMissSargent,butshewentoffatlunch-timeandgaveherselfairs.Theretheysatquietlyofanightreading,shethought.Notgoingtomusic-hallsnotlookinginatshopwindowsnotwearingeachother'sclothes,likeRobertsonwhohadwornhershawl,andshehadwornhiswaistcoat,whichJacobcouldonlydoveryawkwardlyforhelikedTomJones. Thereitlayonherlap,indoublecolumns,pricethreeandsixpencethemysticbookinwhichHenryFieldingeversomanyyearsagorebukedFannyElmerforfeastingonscarlet,inperfectprose,Jacobsaid.Forheneverreadmodernnovels.HelikedTomJones. "IdolikeTomJones,"saidFanny,atfive-thirtythatsamedayearlyinAprilwhenJacobtookouthispipeinthearm-chairopposite. Alas,womenlie!ButnotClaraDurrant.Aflawlessmindacandidnatureavirginchainedtoarock(somewhereoffLowndesSquare)eternallypouringoutteaforoldmeninwhitewaistcoats,blue-eyed,lookingyoustraightintheface,playingBach.Ofallwomen,Jacobhonouredhermost.Buttositatatablewithbreadandbutter,withdowagersinvelvet,andneversaymoretoClaraDurrantthanBensonsaidtotheparrotwhenoldMissPerrypouredouttea,wasaninsufferableoutrageuponthelibertiesanddecenciesofhumannature—orwordstothateffect.ForJacobsaidnothing.Onlyheglaredatthefire.FannylaiddownTomJones. Shestitchedorknitted. "What'sthat?"askedJacob. "ForthedanceattheSlade." Andshefetchedherhead-dresshertrousershershoeswithredtassels.Whatshouldshewear? "IshallbeinParis,"saidJacob. Andwhatisthepointoffancy-dressdances?thoughtFanny.YoumeetthesamepeopleyouwearthesameclothesMangingetsdrunkFlorindasitsonhisknee.Sheflirtsoutrageously—withNickBramhamjustnow. "InParis?"saidFanny. "OnmywaytoGreece,"hereplied. For,hesaid,thereisnothingsodetestableasLondoninMay. Hewouldforgether. Asparrowflewpastthewindowtrailingastraw—astrawfromastackstoodbyabarninafarmyard.Theoldbrownspanielsnuffsatthebaseforarat.Alreadytheupperbranchesoftheelmtreesareblottedwithnests.Thechestnutshaveflirtedtheirfans.AndthebutterfliesareflauntingacrosstheridesintheForest.PerhapsthePurpleEmperorisfeasting,asMorrissays,uponamassofputridcarrionatthebaseofanoaktree. FannythoughtitallcamefromTomJones.Hecouldgoalonewithabookinhispocketandwatchthebadgers.Hewouldtakeatrainateight-thirtyandwalkallnight.Hesawfire-flies,andbroughtbackglow-wormsinpill-boxes.HewouldhuntwiththeNewForestStaghounds.ItallcamefromTomJonesandhewouldgotoGreecewithabookinhispocketandforgether. Shefetchedherhand-glass.Therewasherface.AndsupposeonewreathedJacobinaturban?Therewashisface.Shelitthelamp.Butasthedaylightcamethroughthewindowonlyhalfwaslitupbythelamp.AndthoughhelookedterribleandmagnificentandwouldchucktheForest,hesaid,andcometotheSlade,andbeaTurkishknightoraRomanemperor(andheletherblackenhislipsandclenchedhisteethandscowledintheglass),still—therelayTomJones.