The Death of the Heart - Elizabeth Bowen [87]
"I like friendship very much."
"Ah," said Cecil, and looked at her gloomily. "But if you will excuse my saying so, that may be because you are so young that no fellow has started to rush you yet. Once that starts, it seems to go straight to a girl's head. But you have still got a rather timid manner. Yesterday I felt quite sorry for you."
She did not know how to reply. Cecil bent down and once more studied his plus fours. "Of course," he said, "these can go to the cleaners, but that all costs money, you see, and I had been hoping to run over to France."
"Perhaps your mother could get it off with petrol. Butter is always got off my clothes that way."
"Oh, is it?" said Cecil. "I say," he added, "I had been rather wondering if you would care to run into Southstone one evening, on the five-thirty bus, and meet me after the office. We could then come in on the second half of the concert at the East Cliff Pavilion, and might get a spot of food there; it is a nice, rather cosmopolitan place. If you would really care—"
"Oh, yes, I should simply love it!"
"Then we might call it a date. We'll fix the date itself later."
"Oh, that is kind of you. Thank you."
"Not at all," said Cecil.
The game was over: Charlie and Daphne had just beaten Wallace and Evelyn. Evelyn came across and pulled Cecil on to the court, saying he must now play instead of her. "Sure you wouldn't care to try?" she said to Portia nicely. "Oh well, I see how you feel. I tell you what, you ought to come round one week-day and have a knock up with Clara. She wants practice, you know. Then you could play next time.... My goodness," exclaimed Evelyn, "we do want some air in here! The ventilation is awful!"
Kindly pulling Portia along by one elbow, she went to the end of the court and threw open a door. The garden, after the glare of the court lights, was in very dark blue dusk; the door opening made an alarmed bird break out of a thicket. The town lights blinked through bare moving branches: down there they heard the crepitating sea. Evelyn and Portia, standing in the doorway, filled their lungs with the dark sweet salt spring air.
V
Darling Portia,
What a marvellous idea! Of course I should love to come, but shall I be able to get away? But if they expect me I really must have a try. No, I don't mind if I sleep in their lumber room. I suppose I shall hear Dickie snore through the wall? We are still making fine hay with Thomas out of the office, and if Mr. Rattisbone doesn't have one of his phases I do think that I should be able to nip off. Another thing is, though, that I seem to have filled up my next three week-ends. Next week-end, I think, on the whole, should be the easiest for me to get out of—if I make enemies, you must stand by me. If I do come, I will come on that morning train you said. I shall be able to let you know on Friday. I'm so sorry to leave it as late as that.
I do hope all your dashing friends will like me. I shall be so shy. Well, I must stop, you sweet: I've had three late nights and I do feel like death. Directly you go away I start to go to the bad, which shows how important you are to me. But I simply have to be out. You know I hate my room.
I had just a line from Anna. She sounds quite pleased with everything. Well, I'll let you know. I do hope I can come.
All my best love.
Eddie.
This rather tormenting letter came on Wednesday morning—by which time Mrs. Heccomb was already busy beautifying the lumber room. She had fallen in quite serenely with the idea of this visit, for Eddie had, somehow, been represented to her as an old family friend of Anna's and Thomas's, coming down to see how Portia was getting on. This seemed to her most fitting. What she could not get herself happily reconciled to was, that any friend