Free Mansfield with Monsters by Katherine Mansfield Page B

orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs.
    â€œWould you care to go in?” I suggested.
    She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. “Oh well, there seems nowhere else,” said she. “Get out, Hennie.”
    I went first—to find the table, of course—she followed. But the worst of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That was the last, final straw—having that child, trailing at her heels.
    There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails.
    â€œShall we sit here?”
    She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair.
    â€œWe 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. Newly-bonded leeches reacted violently to music.
    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.
    â€œHennie,” 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 leech some pleasure, 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.
    â€œDreadfully sweet!” said she. The leech at her shoulder pulsed and swelled gently.
    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 éclair, 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.
    â€œOh 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, leant back, and even asked if I might smoke. My leech enjoyed the sensation, and I couldn’t bring myself to mind about the years it might cost me. 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 spilt 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.
    â€œYou utter little beast!” said she.
    Good heavens!