Free The Shape of Sand by Marjorie Eccles Page A

subject all-absorbing. I listened impatiently as he went on to expound a religious belief which seems to me so incomprehensible, based as it was on the worship of jackal- and crocodile-headed gods and god-kings and who knows what else. I was hoping someone might put in a question of more absorbing interest about the mathematical principles which must have governed the building of those amazing pyramids, but the conversation had turned upon the Pharaohs, whose custom it was, according to Miss Jessamy, to marry their sisters. A shocked, uncomfortable silence followed this announcement. How very bold and brassy of her to say such a thing, especially in such mixed company! Then everyone started talking at once. Marcus flushed to the roots of his hair and looked as though he did not know whether to admire her outspokenness or be ashamed for her, but Miss RJ went on eating her duck with green peas and new potatoes as if she was conscious of saying nothing outrageous or offensive. Yet I had a feeling it had been done purposely to scandalise, to shake us out of what she would no doubt regard as our complacency.
    Women like her call themselves free spirits, which seems to me to mean they have no codes of ethics or moral conduct, they require only freedom to do as they please without thought for anyone else. It’s very odd how often they are admired for it. Whereas women who demand real freedom as a right for everyone, and are prepared to suffer for their beliefs, are still treated as inferior beings: Frances, for instance, whose scholarly and intellectual mind soars above that of most men, is derisively called a ‘blue’, and unfeminine, or thought radical and dangerous because she is constantly striving for the principle of recognition at all our universities, not only for the right of women to attend lectures, but also to take a degree on equal terms with men. And only think of Athene Tempest and her suffragettes, who are enduring scorn and indignities beyond belief, and suffer such terrible punishments because they are prepared to stand by their demands for the extension of the franchise to women!
    I had better not continue. I am in danger of becoming sour – or worse, a prig – as Mama often warns me I shall, and I face a trying week ahead. Needlework is something I have never quite seen the point of, but when I approached Clara Hallam, Mama’s maid, for a little assistance with the ‘Three Graces’ costumes, she puckered her mouth like a Dorothy bag and said she’d see what she could do, but of course Madam would have first call on her for
her own preparations, which means we shall see nothing of her unless we beg! How Mama tolerates her, I cannot imagine, but at least she can’t pinch our arms or tweak our hair now, as she used to do when we were children. We must enlist the help of old Nanny, who will be infinitely more cooperative and has always had a nimble needle and a good imagination, and is certainly more fun than vinegar-faced Hallam – though who is not? The costumes should not be too difficult to assemble, but even so, since Nanny is finding it increasingly hard to see nowadays, it seems a great deal to ask of her.
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    After her maid had helped her to undress and brushed her hair, Beatrice dismissed her for the night. “Thank you, Hallam, you can leave my hair as it is.”
    â€œNot even a loose plait, ma’am?”
    â€œI’ll do it myself, later, if I decide on it.”
    â€œVery well.” Expressionless, gaunt as a crow in her severe black satin blouse and grey serge skirt, Hallam put away her mistress’s evening clothes and hung over her arm the afternoon’s cream shantung, which had a grass stain on the hem to be dealt with; while Beatrice, impatient to be alone, wrapped around herself her favourite black Jap-silk kimono, embroidered with chrysanthemums and almond blossom, and tied the sash.
    â€œI shan’t be needing anything else