The Garden Party [41]
and pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails. "Shall we sit here?" She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. "We may as well. Why not?" said she. Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced and bit her lip again. Silence. The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea--coffee? China tea--or iced tea with lemon?" Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!" But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, you may as well bring me a chocolate, too." While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her lovely nose. "Hennie," she said, "take those flowers away." She pointed with her puff to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on a table." They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn't notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. "Dreadfully sweet!" said she. A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'm not at all hungry. Take them away." He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must have been satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy swerved away she held up her plate. "Oh well, give me one," said she. The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don't know why you're giving me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I shan't eat them; I couldn't!" I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said she. "I always expect people to." But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away. "You utter little beast!" said she. Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be abroad long?" But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something...She was miles away. "I--don't--know," she said slowly, from that far place. "I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--" When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. "More--?" "Enfin--gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette. But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, that depends!" was all she could safely say. Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say--what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What about a fresh pineapple cream?" Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs. "Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one." And then quickly, "I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from the year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas.