Love
Copyright© 2024 by Elizabeth Von Arnim
Chapter 6
But she was weak; it was such fun; she couldn’t spoil it; not for this one evening.
There were the roses, sisters to the roses in her room, making the table a thing apart and cared for among the flock of tables decorated cynically with a sad daffodil or wrinkled tulip stuck in sprigs of box and fir; and there the welcoming head waiter, himself hovering over the proper serving of dishes which all seemed to be what she chanced to like best, and there sat Christopher opposite her, flushed with happiness and so obviously adoring that the other diners noticed it and sent frequent discreet glances of benevolent and sympathetic interest across to their corner, and nobody seemed to think his attitude was anything but natural, for she couldn’t help seeing that the glances, after dwelling benevolently on him, dwelt with equal benevolence on her. It was too funny. It wouldn’t have been human not to like it; and whatever misconception it was based on, and however certainly it was bound to end, while it lasted it was—well, amusing.
On the wall to her left was a long strip of looking-glass, and she caught sight of herself in it. No, she didn’t seem old, —not unsuitably old, even for Christopher; in fact not old at all. It was really rather surprising. When did one begin? True, the rose-coloured lights were very kindly in this restaurant, and besides, she was amused and enjoying herself, and amusement and enjoyment do for the time hide a lot of things in one’s face, she reflected. What would Stephen say if he saw her at this moment?
She looked up quickly at Christopher, the thought laughing in her eyes; but meeting his, fixed on her face in adoration, the thought changed to: What would Stephen say if he saw Christopher?—and the laughter became a little uneasy. Well, she couldn’t bother about that to-night; she would take the good the gods were providing. There was always to-morrow, and to-morrow and to-morrow to be dusty and dim in. For the next two hours she was Cinderella at the ball; and afterwards, though there would be the rags, all the rags of all the years, still she would have been at the ball.
‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Christopher, himself one large laugh of joy.
‘I was wondering what Stephen—your friend Stephen—would say if he saw us now.’
‘Poor old Jack-in-the-Box,’ said Christopher with easy irreverence. ‘I suppose he’d think us worldly.’
She leaned forward. ‘What?’ she asked, her face rippling with a mixture of laughter and dismay, ‘what was it you called him?’
‘I said poor old Jack-in-the-Box. So he is. I saw him in his box on Sunday at St. Paul’s. I went, of course. I’d go anywhere on the chance of seeing you. And there he was, poor old back number, gassing away about love. What on earth he thinks he knows about it——’
‘Perhaps——’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps he knows a great deal. He has got’—she hesitated again—’he has got a quite young wife.’
‘Has he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself. Old bone.’
She stared at him. ‘Old what?’ she asked.
‘Bone,’ said Christopher. ‘You can’t get love out of a bone.’
‘But—but he loves her very much,’ she said.
‘Then he’s a rocky old reprobate.’
‘Oh Christopher!’ she said, helplessly.
It was the first time she had called him that, and it came out now as a cry, half of rebuke, half of horrified amusement; but in whatever form it came out the great thing to his enchanted ears was that it had got out, for from that to Chris would be an easy step.
‘Well, so he is. He shouldn’t at that age. He should pray.’
‘Oh Christopher!’ cried Catherine again. ‘But she loves him too.’
‘Then she’s a nasty girl,’ said Christopher stoutly; and after staring at him a moment she went off into a fit of laughter, and laughed in the heavenly way he had already seen her laugh once before—yes, that was over Stephen too—so it was; Stephen seemed a sure draw—with complete abandonment, till she had to pull out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
‘I don’t mind your crying that sort of tears,’ said Christopher benignly, ‘but I won’t have any others.’
‘Oh,’ said Catherine, trying to recover, diligently wiping her eyes, ‘oh, you’re so funny—you’ve no idea how funny——’
‘I can be funnier than that,’ said Christopher proudly, delighted that he could make her laugh.
‘Oh, don’t be—don’t be—I couldn’t bear it. I haven’t laughed like this since—I can’t remember when. Not for years, anyhow.’
‘Was George at all like his furniture?’
‘His furniture?’
‘Well, you’re not going to persuade me that that isn’t George’s, all that solemn stuff in your drawing-room. Was he like that? I mean, because if he was naturally you didn’t laugh much.’
‘Oh—poor darling,’ said Catherine quickly, leaving off laughing.
He had been tactless. He had been brutal. He wanted to throw himself at her feet. It was the champagne, of course; for in reality he had the highest opinion of George, who not only was so admirably dead but also had evidently taken great care of Catherine while he wasn’t.
‘I say, I’m most awfully sorry,’ he murmured, deeply contrite, —whatever had possessed him to drag George into their little feast? ‘And I like George most awfully. I’m sure he was a thoroughly decent chap. And he can’t help it if he’s got a bit crystallised, —in his furniture, I mean, and still hangs round——’
His voice trailed out. He was making it worse. Catherine’s face, bent over her plate, was solemn.
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