The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [10]
When Anna, with St. Quentin on her heels, came into the drawingroom it appeared to be empty—then by the light of one distant lamp and the fire they perceived Portia, sitting on a stool. Her dark dress almost blotted her out against a dark lacquer screen—but now she rose up politely, to shake hands with St. Quentin. "So here you are," said Anna. "When did you get back?"
"Just now. I've been washing."
St. Quentin said: "How dirty lessons must be!"
Anna went on, with keyed-up vivacity: "Had a nice day?"
"We've been doing constitutional history, musical appreciation and French."
"Goodness!" said Anna, glancing at the tea-tray set inexorably with three cups. She switched on all the other lamps, dropped her muff in a chair, came out of her fur coat, and peeled off the two tricots she had worn under it. Then she looked round with these garments hanging over her arm. Portia said: "Shall I put those away for you?"
"If you would be angelic—look, take my cap as well."
"How obliging..." St. Quentin said, while Portia was out of earshot. But Anna, propping her elbow on the mantelpiece, looked at him with implacable melancholy. In the pretty air-tight room with its drawn aquamarine curtains, scrolled sofa and half-circle of yellow chairs, silk-shaded lamps cast light into the mirrors and on to Samarkand rugs. There was a smell of freesias and sandalwood: it was nice to be in from the cold park. "Well," St. Quentin said, "we shall all be glad of our tea." Loudly sighing with gratification, he arranged himself in an armchair—crossed his legs, tipped up his chin, looked down his nose at the fire. By sitting like this, he exaggerated the tension they had found in the room, outside which he consciously placed himself. Everything nearly was so pleasant—Anna rapped on the marble with her fingernails.
He said: "My dear Anna, this is only one of what will be many teas."
Portia came back again; she said: "I put your things on your bed: was that right?" For tea, she returned to her stool by the fire; here she sat with her plate on her knees, her cup and saucer on the parquet beside her—when she drank she stooped half way to meet her cup. Sideways on to the hearth she commanded an equal view of Anna on the sofa, pouring out tea and smoking, of St. Quentin constantly wiping buttered toast from his fingers on to his handkerchief. Her look, steady, level and unassuming, missed nothing the other two did. Once the telephone rang: Anna crossly reached round the end of the sofa to answer it.
"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.