CHAPTER THIRTEEN

wrote."Itseemedwickedtowasteevenamoment." ThelongwindowsofKensingtonPalaceflushedfieryroseasJacobwalkedawayaflockofwildduckflewovertheSerpentineandthetreeswerestoodagainstthesky,blackly,magnificently. "Jacob,"wroteMrs.Flanders,withtheredlightonherpage,"ishardatworkafterhisdelightfuljourney…" "TheKaiser,"thefar-awayvoiceremarkedinWhitehall,"receivedmeinaudience." "NowIknowthatface—"saidtheReverendAndrewFloyd,comingoutofCarter'sshopinPiccadilly,"butwhothedickens—?"andhewatchedJacob,turnedroundtolookathim,butcouldnotbesure— "Oh,JacobFlanders!"herememberedinaflash. Buthewassotallsounconscioussuchafineyoungfellow. "IgavehimByron'sworks,"AndrewFloydmused,andstartedforward,asJacobcrossedtheroadbuthesitated,andletthemomentpass,andlosttheopportunity. Anotherprocession,withoutbanners,wasblockingLongAcre.Carriages,withdowagersinamethystandgentlemenspottedwithcarnations,interceptedcabsandmotor-carsturnedintheoppositedirection,inwhichjadedmeninwhitewaistcoatslolled,ontheirwayhometoshrubberiesandbilliard-roomsinPutneyandWimbledon. Twobarrel-organsplayedbythekerb,andhorsescomingoutofAldridge'swithwhitelabelsontheirbuttocksstraddledacrosstheroadandweresmartlyjerkedback. Mrs.Durrant,sittingwithMr.Wortleyinamotor-car,wasimpatientlesttheyshouldmisstheoverture. ButMr.Wortley,alwaysurbane,alwaysintimefortheoverture,buttonedhisgloves,andadmiredMissClara. "Ashametospendsuchanightinthetheatre!"saidMrs.Durrant,seeingallthewindowsofthecoachmakersinLongAcreablaze. "Thinkofyourmoors!"saidMr.WortleytoClara. "Ah!butClaralikesthisbetter,"Mrs.Durrantlaughed. "Idon'tknow—really,"saidClara,lookingattheblazingwindows.Shestarted. ShesawJacob. "Who?"askedMrs.Durrantsharply,leaningforward. Butshesawnoone. UnderthearchoftheOperaHouselargefacesandleanones,thepowderedandthehairy,allalikewereredinthesunsetand,quickenedbythegreathanginglampswiththeirrepressedprimroselights,bythetramp,andthescarlet,andthepompousceremony,someladieslookedforamomentintosteamingbedroomsnearby,wherewomenwithloosehairleanedoutofwindows,wheregirls—wherechildren—(thelongmirrorsheldtheladiessuspended)butonemustfollowonemustnotblocktheway. Clara'smoorswerefineenough.ThePhoenicianssleptundertheirpiledgreyrocksthechimneysoftheoldminespointedstarklyearlymothsblurredtheheather-bellscartwheelscouldbeheardgrindingontheroadfarbeneathandthesuckandsighingofthewavessoundedgently,persistently,forever. ShadinghereyeswithherhandMrs.Pascoestoodinhercabbage-gardenlookingouttosea.Twosteamersandasailing-shipcrossedeachotherpassedeachotherandinthebaythegullskeptalightingonalog,risinghigh,returningagaintothelog,whilesomerodeinuponthewavesandstoodontherimofthewateruntilthemoonblanchedalltowhiteness. Mrs.Pascoehadgoneindoorslongago. ButtheredlightwasonthecolumnsoftheParthenon,andtheGreekwomenwhowereknittingtheirstockingsandsometimescryingtoachildtocomeandhavetheinsectspickedfromitsheadwereasjollyassand-martinsintheheat,quarrelling,scolding,sucklingtheirbabies,untiltheshipsinthePiraeusfiredtheirguns. Thesoundspreaditselfflat,andthenwenttunnellingitswaywithfitfulexplosionsamongthechannelsoftheislands. DarknessdropslikeaknifeoverGreece. "Theguns?"saidBettyFlanders,halfasleep,gettingoutofbedandgoingtothewindow,whichwasdecoratedwithafringeofdarkleaves. "Notatthisdistance,"shethought."Itisthesea." Again,faraway,sheheardthedullsound,asifnocturnalwomenwerebeatinggreatcarpets.TherewasMortylost,andSeabrookdeadhersonsfightingfortheircountry.Butwerethechickenssafe?Wasthatsomeonemovingdownstairs?Rebeccawiththetoothache?No.Thenocturnalwomenwerebeatinggreatcarpets.Herhensshiftedslightlyontheirperches.