A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [110]
Nothing in life can ever be entirely divorced from myriad other incidents; and it is remarkable, though no doubt logical, that action, built up from innumerable causes, each in itself allusive and unnoticed more often than not, is almost always provided with an apparently ideal moment for its final expression. So true is this that what has gone before is often, to all intents and purposes, swallowed up by the aptness of the climax, opportunity appearing at least on the surface, to be the sole cause of fulfilment. The circumstances that had brought me to Barnby’s studio supplied a fair example of this complexity of experience. There was, however, more to come.
When I awoke from these sleepy, barely coherent reflections, I decided that I had had enough of the studio, which merely reminded me of Barnby’s apparent successes in a field in which I was then, generally speaking, feeling decidedly unsuccessful. Without any very clear idea of how I would spend my time until dinner, I set off down the stairs, and had just reached the door that led from the back of the shop to the foot of the staircase, when a female voice from the other side shouted: “Who is that?”
My first thought was that Mr. Deacon’s sister had returned to the house. After the cremation, she had announced herself as retiring for the rest of the day to her hotel in Bloomsbury, as she was suffering from a headache.
I supposed now that she had changed her mind, and decided to continue the task of sorting her brother’s belongings, regarding some of which she had already consulted Barnby, since there were books and papers among Mr. Deacon’s property that raised a number of questions of disposal, sometimes of a somewhat delicate kind. She had probably come back to the shop and again sought guidance on some matter. It was to be hoped that the point would not prove an embarrassing one. However, when I said my name, the person beyond the door turned out to be Gypsy.
“Come in for a moment,” she called.
I turned the handle and entered. She was standing behind the screen, in the shadows, at the back of the shop. My first impression was that she had stripped herself stark naked. There was, indeed, good reason for this misapprehension, for a second look showed that she was wearing a kind of bathing-dress, flesh-coloured, and of unusually sparing cut. I must have showed my surprise, because she burst into a paroxysm of laughter.
“I thought you would like to see my dress for the Merry Thought fancy-dress party,” she said. “I am going as Eve,”
She came closer.
“Where is Barnby?” she asked.
“He went out. Didn’t you hear him go? After he spoke on the telephone.”
“I’ve only just come in,” she said. “I wanted to try out my costume on both of you.”
She sounded disappointed at having missed such an opportunity to impress Barnby, though I thought the display would have annoyed rather than amused him; which was no doubt her intention.
“Won’t you be cold?”
“The place is going to be specially heated. Anyway, the weather is mild enough. Still, shut the door. There’s a bit of a draught.”
She sat down on the divan. That part of the shop was shut off from the rest by the screen in such a way as almost to form a cubicle. As Mr. Deacon had described, shawls or draperies of some sort were spread over the surface of this piece of furniture.
“What do you think of the fig leaf?” she asked. “I made it myself.”
I have already spoken of the common ground shared by conflicting emotions. As Barnby had remarked, the funeral had been “hard on the nerves,” and a consciousness of sudden relief from pressure was stimulating. Gypsy, somewhat altering the manner she had adopted on my first arrival in the shop, now managed to look almost prim. She had