CHAPTER XII

ofhermindweresubduedandshelookedathimironicallyandwiththeexpressionwhichhehadcalledsadbefore,forwantofabetternameforit. “Idon’tknowthatthere’smuchsenseinhavingideals,”shesaid. “Butyouhavethem,”herepliedenergetically.“Whydowecallthemideals?It’sastupidword.Dreams,Imean—” Shefollowedhiswordswithpartedlips,asthoughtoanswereagerlywhenhehaddonebutashesaid,“Dreams,Imean,”thedoorofthedrawing-roomswungopen,andsoremainedforaperceptibleinstant.Theybothheldthemselvessilent,herlipsstillparted. Faroff,theyheardtherustleofskirts.Thentheowneroftheskirtsappearedinthedoorway,whichshealmostfilled,nearlyconcealingthefigureofaverymuchsmallerladywhoaccompaniedher. “Myaunts!”Katharinemurmured,underherbreath.Hertonehadahintoftragedyinit,butnoless,Ralphthought,thanthesituationrequired.SheaddressedthelargerladyasAuntMillicentthesmallerwasAuntCelia,Mrs.Milvain,whohadlatelyundertakenthetaskofmarryingCyriltohiswife.Bothladies,butMrs.Cosham(AuntMillicent)inparticular,hadthatlookofheightened,smoothed,incarnadinedexistencewhichispropertoelderlyladiespayingcallsinLondonaboutfiveo’clockintheafternoon.PortraitsbyRomney,seenthroughglass,havesomethingoftheirpink,mellowlook,theirbloomingsoftness,asofapricotshanginguponaredwallintheafternoonsun.Mrs.Coshamwassoappareledwithhangingmuffs,chains,andswingingdraperiesthatitwasimpossibletodetecttheshapeofahumanbeinginthemassofbrownandblackwhichfilledthearm-chair.Mrs.MilvainwasamuchslighterfigurebutthesamedoubtastothepreciselinesofhercontourfilledRalph,asheregardedthem,withdismalforeboding.Whatremarkofhiswouldeverreachthesefabulousandfantasticcharacters?—fortherewassomethingfantasticallyunrealinthecuriousswayingsandnoddingsofMrs.Cosham,asifherequipmentincludedalargewirespring.Hervoicehadahigh-pitched,cooingnote,whichprolongedwordsandcutthemshortuntiltheEnglishlanguageseemednolongerfitforcommonpurposes.Inamomentofnervousness,soRalphthought,Katharinehadturnedoninnumerableelectriclights.ButMrs.Coshamhadgainedimpetus(perhapsherswayingmovementshadthatendinview)forsustainedspeechandshenowaddressedRalphdeliberatelyandelaborately. “IcomefromWoking,Mr.Popham.Youmaywellaskme,whyWoking?andtothatIanswer,forperhapsthehundredthtime,becauseofthesunsets.Wewentthereforthesunsets,butthatwasfive-and-twentyyearsago.Wherearethesunsetsnow?Alas!ThereisnosunsetnownearerthantheSouthCoast.”Herrichandromanticnoteswereaccompaniedbyawaveofalongwhitehand,which,whenwaved,gaveoffaflashofdiamonds,rubies,andemeralds.Ralphwonderedwhethershemoreresembledanelephant,withajeweledhead-dress,orasuperbcockatoo,balancedinsecurelyuponitsperch,andpeckingcapriciouslyatalumpofsugar. “Wherearethesunsetsnow?”sherepeated.“Doyoufindsunsetsnow,Mr.Popham?” “IliveatHighgate,”hereplied. “AtHighgate?Yes,HighgatehasitscharmsyourUncleJohnlivedatHighgate,”shejerkedinthedirectionofKatharine.Shesankherheaduponherbreast,asifforamoment’smeditation,whichpast,shelookedupandobserved:“IdaresaythereareveryprettylanesinHighgate.Icanrecollectwalkingwithyourmother,Katharine,throughlanesblossomingwithwildhawthorn.Butwhereisthehawthornnow?YourememberthatexquisitedescriptioninDeQuincey,Mr.Popham?—butIforget,you,inyourgeneration,withallyouractivityandenlightenment,atwhichIcanonlymarvel”—hereshedisplayedbothherbeautifulwhitehands—“donotreadDeQuincey.YouhaveyourBelloc,yourChesterton,yourBernardShaw—whyshouldyoureadDeQuincey?” “ButIdoreadDeQuincey,”Ralphprotested,“morethanBellocandChesterton,anyhow.” “Indeed!”exclaimedMrs.Cosham,withagestureofsurpriseandreliefmingled.“Youare,then,a‘raraavis’inyourgeneration.IamdelightedtomeetanyonewhoreadsDeQuincey.” Hereshehollowedherhandintoascreen,and,leaningtowardsKatharine,inquired,inaveryaudiblewhisper,“Doesyourfriendwrite?” “Mr.Denham,”saidKatharine,withmorethanherusualclearnessandfirmness,“writesfortheReview.Heisalawyer.” “Theclean-shavenlips,showingtheexpressionofthemouth!Irecognizethematonce.Ialwaysfeelathomewithlawyers,Mr.Denham—” “Theyusedtocomeaboutsomuchintheolddays,”Mrs.Milvaininterposed,thefrail,silverynotesofhervoicefallingwiththesweettoneofanoldbell. “YousayyouliveatHighgate,”shecontinued.“IwonderwhetheryouhappentoknowifthereisanoldhousecalledTempestLodgestillinexistence—anoldwhitehouseinagarden?” Ralphshookhishead,andshesighed. “Ah,noitmusthavebeenpulleddownbythistime,withalltheotheroldhouses.Thereweresuchprettylanesinthosedays.ThatwashowyourunclemetyourAuntEmily,youknow,”sheaddressedKatharine.“Theywalkedhome