Free To the North by Elizabeth Bowen

mournful and monumental, a whole hall of petrified kings… . Markie, too well advised to encounter Cecilia over the wire, soon traced Emmeline to her number at Woburn Place.
    Emmeline, during these weeks, had seen Markie a good many times. He impressed her with his good sense, his extensive and intimate knowledge of Europe, his quickness of mind and the information on almost all topics he could command. While he talked, she would look at him thoughtfully: she had had no idea till he wrote that he found her difficult. For some time she had found his physical personality vaguely unpleasing, though she took little stock of these things: she jumped as though she had been struck the first time he put out her way an eager but nerveless hand. He had the effect of suspending her faculties not unpleasantly, like some very loud noise to which one becomes accustomed. She was surprised by the kind of woman he admired in restaurants and had had no idea till he wrote that he thought her beautiful. For some time—until, in fact, their own friendship was well established— she took him for granted as some sort of family friend: such had come and gone. He sailed in her waters under Cecilia’s ensign.
    When Emmeline realised Cecilia no longer saw him she was alarmed; it was as though a door shut upon her and Markie, leaving them quite alone for the first time: the nature of their relationship changed for her. When she understood that Cecilia had not realised she still saw Markie, taking fully for granted that he was out of the family, Emmeline was dumbfounded. Reserve had kept her at all times from discussing her friends with Cecilia, whose incuriosity was immense: at this point, a profound shyness inhibited Emmeline. This was her first break with innocence. Something weakened in her defences that were not till now defences, so unconscious had they been and so impassable. The soft, enquiring foal’s eyes she still fixed on Markie had a new shadow behind them. The evening of that enlightening talk with Cecilia she had promised to dine with Markie: she almost did not go: she went, and she came away shaken. He had not been slow to interpret that new wary shadow behind her eyes.
    “Wednesday,” he had repeated, leaning into the car as he saw her off, just after midnight. But Emmeline, every nerve quivering from that collision, had leaned away from him in her white fur coat. “I can’t,” she had said, despairing. She shot into gear, accelerated, and the small car went spinning, terrified, up the empty streets to St. John’s Wood. Emmeline, trembling, went to her room and wept. She recollected his goodness of heart, his engaging friendliness, how his face lit up when they met. There had been some mistake. Stepping out of the yellow dress she had put on so cheerfully she had racked herself with contrition. All next day she worked desperately, to the exclusion of thought, and to-day, two days later, came down to Farraways, where she would walk with Sir Robert.

    In the drawing-room at Farraways, where they were waiting for dinner, a distinct gloom was lightened by the appearance of Emmeline. Gilbert Bligh had forgotten his black tie and been obliged to borrow one from Tim Farquharson, whom he disliked; he did not dare reproach Gerda who would have replied that she was not a valet; that they had not enough servants was one of her tragedies. Tim Farquharson, unable to post his letters, had reopened several and come to the conclusion that he had not done himself justice. Sir Robert, leaning on the piano, was showing a book of drawings to Gerda Bligh, who would have preferred to stay in her room for a good weep. Lady Waters, arranging a fur on her spangled shoulders, looked magnetically at her visitors. Emmeline had, in fact, entered a web where the prey still fluttered… . But the drawing-room with wide-open windows, bowls of white lilac and young fire seemed to be full of friendly people. She smiled, and said she hoped she was not