Free Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford

indeed I realized, hopelessly in love. In fact the very thing that Lady Montdore had intended for Polly had befallen me.
    “There you are, Sonia,” said Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett triumphantly, tapping a cigarette with nervous violence against her jewelled case and lighting it with a gold lighter, her pale blue eyes never meanwhile leaving my face. “What did I tell you? Of course she is, poor sweet, just look at that blush, it must be something quite new and horribly bogus. I know, it’s my dear old husband. Confess, now! I couldn’t mind less, actually.”
    I did not like to say that I still, after a whole weekend, had no idea at all which of the many husbands present hers might be, but stammered out as quick as I could, “Oh, no, no, not anybody’s husband, I promise.” Only a fiancé, and such a detached one at that.
    They both laughed.
    “All right,” said Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett, “we’re not going to worm. What we really want to know, to settle a bet, is, have you always fancied somebody ever since you can remember? Answer truthfully, please.”
    I was obliged to admit that this was the case. From a tiny child, ever since I could remember, in fact, some delicious image had been enshrined in my heart, last thought at night, first thought in the morning. Fred Terry as Sir Percy Blakeney, Lord Byron, Rudolph Valentino, Henry V, Gerald du Maurier, blissful Mrs. Ashton at my school, Steerforth, Napoleon, the guard on the 4.45, image had succeeded image. Latterly it had been that of a pale, pompous young man in the Foreign Office who had once, during my season in London, asked me for a dance, had seemed to me the very flower of cosmopolitan civilization, and had remained the pivot of existence until wiped from my memory by Sauveterre. Forthat is what always happened to these images. Time and hateful absence blurred them, faded them but never quite obliterated them until some lovely new broom image came and swept them away.
    “There you are, you see,” Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett turned triumphantly to Lady Montdore. “From kiddie car to hearse, darling, I couldn’t know it better. After all, what would there be to think about when one’s alone, otherwise?”
    What, indeed? This Veronica had hit the nail on the head. Lady Montdore did not look convinced. She, I felt sure, had never harboured romantic yearnings and had plenty to think about when she was alone, which, anyhow, was hardly ever.
    “But who is there for her to be in love with, and, if she is, surely I should know it,” she said.
    I guessed that they were talking about Polly and this was confirmed by Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett saying, “No, darling, you wouldn’t, you’re her mother. When I remember poor Mummy and her ideas on the subject of my ginks …”
    “Now, Fanny, tell us what you think. Is Polly in love?”
    “Well, she says she’s not, but …”
    “But you don’t think it’s possible not to be fancying someone? Nor do I.”
    I wondered. Polly and I had had a long chat the night before, sprawling on my bed in our dressing gowns, and I had felt almost certain then that she was keeping something back which she would half have liked to tell me.
    “I suppose it might depend on your nature?” I said, doubtfully.
    “Anyhow,” said Lady Montdore, “there’s one thing only too certain. She takes no notice of the young men I provide for her and they take no notice of her. They worship me, of course, but what is the good of that?”
    Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett caught my eye, and I thought she gave me half a wink. I liked her more every minute. Lady Montdore went on:
    “Bored and boring. I can’t say I’m looking forward to bringingher out in London very much if she goes on like this. She used to be such a sweet easy child, but her whole character seems to have changed, now she is grown-up. I can’t understand it.”
    “Oh, she’s bound to fall for some nice chap in London, darling,” said Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett. “I wouldn’t worry too