Free The Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen Page B

friend here but the more than doubtful Lilian, but she quite saw why this was, and it really could not be helped. She regretted that Mrs. Quayne had not seen her way to go on sending someone to fetch Portia, as she had done for the first weeks. She had a strong feeling that Portia and Lilian loitered in the streets on the way home. Miss Paullie knew one must not be old-fashioned, but it gave better tone if the girls were fetched.
    Any girls who stayed to lunch at Miss Paullie’s lunched in a morningroom in the annexe basement: down here the light was almost always on. The proper diningroom of the house was a waitingroom, with sideboards like catafalques: where Dr. Paullie himself lunched no one asked or knew.
    The lunch given the girls was sufficient, simple and far from excellent—Lilian, sent to lunch here because of the servant shortage, always messed about at it with her fork. Miss Paullie, at the head of the table, encouraged the girls to talk to her about art. This Wednesday, this Wednesday of the letter, Portia seated herself as far away from Miss Paullie as she possibly could, whereupon Lilian seized the place next to Portia’s with unusual zest.
    “It really was awful for you,” Lilian said, “I didn’t know where to look. Why didn’t you tell me you’d had a letter? I did think you were looking very mysterious. Why didn’t you read it when you had your breakfast? Or is it the kind of letter one reads again and again? Excuse my asking, but who is it from?”
    “It’s from a friend of Anna’s. Because I got him his hat.”
    “Had he lost his hat?”
    “No. I heard him coming downstairs, and his hat was there, so I gave it to him.”
    “That doesn’t seem a thing to write a letter about. Is he not a nice man, or is he very polite? What on earth were you doing in the hall?”
    “I was in Thomas’s study.”
    “Well, that comes to the same thing. It comes to the same thing with the door open. You had been listening for him, I suppose?”
    “I just was down there. You see, Anna was in the drawingroom.”
    “You are extraordinary. What does he do?”
    “He is in Thomas’s office.”
    “Could you really feel all that for a man? I’m never sure that I could.”
    “He’s quite different from St. Quentin. Even Major Brutt is not at all like him.”
    “Well, I do think you ought to be more careful, really. After all, you and I are only sixteen. Do you want red-currant jelly with this awful mutton? I do. Do get it away from that pig.”
    Portia slipped the dish of red-currant jelly away from Lucia Ames—who would soon be a debutante. “I hope you are feeling better, Lilian?” she said.
    “Well, I am, but I get a nervous craving for things.”
    When the afternoon classes were over—at four o’clock today—Lilian invited Portia back to tea. “I don’t know,” said Portia. “You see, Anna is out.”
    “Well, my mother is out, which is far better.”
    “Matchett did say that I could have tea with her.”
    “My goodness,” Lilian said, “but couldn’t you do that any day? And we don’t often have my whole house to ourselves. We can take the gramophone up to the bathroom while I wash my hair; I’ve got three Stravinsky records. And you can show me your letter.”
    Portia gulped, and looked wildly into a point in space. “No, I can’t do that, because I have torn it up.”
    “No, you can’t have done that,” said Lilian firmly, “because I should have seen you. Unless you did when you were in the lavatory, and you didn’t stay in there long enough. You do hurt my feelings: I don’t want to intrude. But whatever Miss Paullie says, don’t you leave your bag about.”
    “It isn’t in my bag,” said Portia unwarily.
    So Portia went home to tea with Lilian and, in spite of a qualm, enjoyed herself very much. They ate crumpets on the rug in front of the drawingroom fire. Their cheeks scorched, but a draught crept under the door. Lilian, heaping coals of fire, brought down, untied