The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [10]
"Yes, it is," she replied. "But I'm not here at tea-time; I never am; I told you. I thought this was when you were so busy? Surely you ought to be?... Yes, of course I have.... Must you really?... Well six, then, or half-past."
"A quarter-past," put in St. Quentin, "I'm going at six."
"A quarter-past," Anna said, and hung up with no change of face. She sat back again on the sofa. "Such affectation..."
"Oh, no?" said St. Quentin. They just glanced at each other.
"St. Quentin, your handkerchief's terribly buttery."
"Your excellent toast..."
"You wave it about so much—Portia, do you really like a stool without any back?"
"I like this particular stool—I walked all the way home, Anna."
Anna did not reply; she had forgotten to listen. St. Quentin said: "Did you really? We just walked in the park. The lake's frozen," he added, cutting himself some cake.
"Well, it can't be quite: I saw swans swimming about.'"
"You are quite right: it's not frozen completely. Anna, what is the matter?"
"I'm sorry, I was just thinking. I hate my lax character. I hate it when people take advantage of it."
"I'm afraid we can't do much about your character now. It must have set—I know mine has. Portia's so lucky; hers is still being formed."
Portia fixed St. Quentin with her blank dark eyes. An alarming vague little smile, already not quite childish, altered her face, then died. She went on saying nothing—St. Quentin rather sharply recrossed his legs. Anna bit off a yawn and said: "She may become anything.... Portia, what hundreds of bears you've got on your mantelpiece. Do they come from Switzerland?"
"Yes. I'm afraid they collect dust."
"I didn't notice the dust; I just thought what hundreds there were. All hand-carved, I suppose, by the Swiss peasants.... I went in there to hang up your white dress."
"If you'd rather, Anna, I could put them away."
"Oh no, why? They seemed to be having tea."
The Quaynes had a room-to-room telephone, which, instead of ringing, let out a piercing buzz. It buzzed now, and Anna put out a hand, saying: "That must be Thomas." She unhooked. "Hullo?... Yes, St. Quentin is, at the moment.... Very well, darling, soon." She hung up the receiver. "Thomas is back," she said.
"You might have told him that I am just going. Does he want anything special?"
"Just to say he is in." Anna folded her arms, leaned her head back, looked at the ceiling. Then: "Portia," she said, "why don't you go down to Thomas in the study?"
Portia lit up. "Did he say for me to?" she said.
"He may not know you are in. He'd be ever so pleased, I'm sure.... Tell him I'm well and will come down as soon as St. Quentin goes."
"And give Thomas my love."
Getting up from the stool carefully, Portia returned her cup and plate to the tray. Then, holding herself so erect that she quivered, taking long soft steps on the balls of her feet, and at the same time with an orphaned unostentation, she started making towards the door. She moved crabwise, as though the others were royalty, never quite turning her back on them—and they, waiting for her to be quite gone, watched. She wore a dark wool dress, in Anna's excellent taste, buttoned from throat to hem and belted with heavy leather. The belt slid down her thin hips, and she nervously gripped at it, pulling it up. Short sleeves showed her very thin arms and big delicate elbow joints. Her body was all concave and jerkily fluid lines; it moved with sensitive looseness, loosely threaded together: each movement had a touch of exaggeration, as though some secret power kept springing out. At the same time she looked cautious, aware of the world in which she had to live. She was sixteen, losing her childish majesty. The pointed attention of St. Quentin and Anna reached her like a quick tide, or an attack: the ordeal of getting out of the drawingroom tightened her mouth up and made her fingers curl—her wrists were pressed to her thighs. She got to the door, threw it ceremonially open, then turned with one hand on it, proudly ready to show she could speak again. But at once, Anna poured out another cup of cold tea, St. Quentin flattened a wrinkle out of the rug with his heel. She heard their silence till she had shut the door.