I will tell you the true storyanother time, she
said, freeing herself from her daughters grasp. In their own garden all wasempty and
silent. It looked very shut-up and desolate, he added.
It wasa house of character; built some time in the
eighteenth century. The sound of the dance music became dulled.
Atfirst exciting, then it became boring and finally
intolerable.
The worlds nothing but thought, does he say? You
havent told usthe story of the bouquet, Mamma! A faded brown book lay on her bed; as
if she had been reading.
They are going to admire your lovely present, Abel,
said Eugénie.
At the bottom of the bed was a long stretch ofcool
fresh mattress. Sold was written on a strip of bright red paper pasted across
thehouse-agents board.
He took the book that waspropped up against the
teapot and looked at it. He envied Digby his house, his wife, his children. Her lip
raised itself, like that of a horse that is going to bite. Why dyouwear your best
clothes to play in the garden?
He stood in front of the fireand looked at his
mothers picture.
Her mother atonce supplied the words she should
have spoken. Nothinghad been changed he was glad to see.
A clear pillarof flame rose in the middle of the
garden.
For sometime the dappled iridescence of the sky
remained unbroken. There were shouts of laughter from thegarden.
He still had his newspaper in his hand; he laid it
onthe table.
He picked up one of thecrinkled strips and began
reading it: .
It was drooping; the white petals were stained with
blackmarks. She half heard them behind hertalking about the party.
And I used to like going there,
hethought.
Theair, laden with the curious dry smell of London
earth, puffed inher face, blowing the blind out. Her eyes rested on her mother
withadmiration.
He was always herfavourite, they said, and the
thought pleased him today.
I am lying straight and still, said
Sara.
She could see a tray with whisky anda soda-water
syphon on the hall table. But she had been there, for there was a book on the table.