-
A Cup of T
ea
ROSEMARY FELL was not exactly
beautiful. No, you couldn't have called her
beautiful. Pretty ?
Well,
if
you
took
her
to
pieces . ..
But
why
be
so
cruel
as
to
take
anyone
to
pieces ?
She
was
young, brilliant,
extremely modern, exquisitely well dressed,
amazingly well read in the newest of
the
new
books,
and
her
parties
were
the
most
delicious
mixture
of
the
really
important
people
and...
artists
—
quaint
creatures,
discoveries
of
hers,
some
of
them
too
terrifying
for
words,
but
others
quite presentable and amusing.
Rosemary
had been married two years. She had a duck of a
boy. No, not Peter
—
Michael.
And her
husband absolutely adored her.
They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably
well off, which is
odious and stuffy
and sounds like one's grandparents. But if
Rosemary wanted to shop she would
go to
Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street. If she
wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at
that perfect shop in Regent Street, and
Rosemary inside the shop
PAGE
25
just gazed in her dazzled, rather
exotic way, and said:
four bunches of
those. And that jar of roses. Yes, I'll have all
the roses in the jar. No, no lilac. I
hate lilac. It's got no
shape.
only too true; lilac was
dreadfully shapeless.
white
ones.
And
she
was
followed
to
the
car
by
a
thin
shopgirl
staggering
under
an
immense
white
paper armful that looked like a baby in long
clothes...
One winter afternoon she had
been buying something in a little antique shop in
Curzon Street. It
was a shop she liked.
For one thing, one usually had it to oneself. And
then the man who kept it
was
ridiculously fond of serving her. He beamed
whenever she came in. He clasped his hands he
was so gratified he could scarcely
speak. Flattery, of course. All the same, there
was something...
You
see,
madam,
he
would
explain
in
his
low
respectful
tones,
I
love
my
things.
I
would
rather not part with
them than sell them to someone who does not
appreciate them, who has not
that fine
feeling which is so rare...
and pressed
it on the glass counter with his pale finger-tips.
To-day
it
was
a
little
box.
He
had
been
keeping
it
for
her.
He
had
shown
it
to
nobody
PAGE
26
as
yet.
An
exquisite
little
enamel
box
with
a
glaze
so
fine
it
looked
as
though
it had been baked in cream. On the lid a minute
creature stood under a flowery tree, and a
more minute creature still had her arms
round his neck. Her hat, really no bigger than a
geranium
petal,
hung
from
a
branch
;
it
had
green
ribbons.
And
there
was
a
pink
cloud
like
a
watchful
cherub floating above their heads.
Rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves.
She always
took off her gloves to
examine such things. Yes, she liked it very much.
She loved it; it was a great
duck. She
must have it. And, turning the creamy box, opening
and shutting it, she couldn't help
noticing how charming her hands were
against the blue velvet. The shopman, in some dim
cavern
of his mind, may have dared to
think so too. For he took a pencil, leant over the
counter, and his
pale bloodless fingers
crept timidly towards those rosy, flashing ones,
as he murmured gently :
I may venture
to point out to madam, the flowers on the little
lady's bodice.
Charming!
Rosemary
admired
the
flowers.
But
what
was
the
price
?
For
a
moment
the
shopman did not seem to hear. Then a
murmur reached her.
gloves
again. Twenty-eight
PAGE
27
guineas. Even if one is rich... She
looked
vague. She stared at a plump
tea-kettle like a plump hen above the shopman's
head, and her voice
was dreamy as she
answered:
—
will you ?
I'll...
But the shopman had already
bowed as though keeping it for her was all any
human being could
ask. He would be
willing, of course, to keep it for her for ever.
The discreet door shut with a click.
She was outside on the step, gazing at the winter
afternoon.
Rain was falling, and with
the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning
down like ashes. There
was a cold
bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps
looked sad. Sad were the lights in the
houses
opposite.
Dimly
they
burned
as
if
regretting
something.
And
people
hurried
by,
hidden
under
their
hateful
umbrellas.
Rosemary
felt
a
strange
pang.
She
pressed
her
muff
against
her
breast; she wished she
had the little box, too, to cling to. Of course,
the car was there. She'd only
to cross
the pavement. But still she waited. There are
moments, horrible moments in life, when
one emerges from shelter and looks out,
and it's awful. One oughtn't to give way to them.
One
ought to go home and have an extra-
special tea. But at the very instant of thinking
that, a young
girl, thin, dark,
shadowy
—
where had she come
from ?
—
was standing at
Rosemary's elbow and a
voice
like
a
sigh,
almost
like
a
sob,
PAGE
28
speak to you a moment ?
breathed
:
Madam,
may
I
Speak
to
me
?
Rosemary
turned.
She
saw
a
little
battered
creature
with
enormous
eyes,
someone quite young, no older than
herself, who clutched at her coat-collar with
reddened hands,
and shivered as though
she had just come out of the water.
voice of a
beggar.
more
than
extraordinary!
And
suddenly
it
seemed
to
Rosemary
such
an
adventure.
It
was
like
something
out
of
a
novel
by
Dostoevsky,
this
meeting
in
the
dusk.
Supposing
she took
the girl
home ? Supposing she did do one of
those things she was always reading about or
seeing on the
stage, what would happen
? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself
saying afterwards to the
amazement of
her friends :
that dim person beside
her :
The
girl
drew
back
startled.
She
even
PAGE
29
stopped
shivering
for
a
moment. Rosemary put out a hand and
touched her arm.
felt how-simple and
kind her smile was.
car and have
tea.
—
you don't
mean it, madam,
The girl put
her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured
Rosemary.
—
you're not taking
me to the police station ?
make you warm and to
hear
—
anything you care to
tell me.
Hungry people are easily led.
The footman held the door of the car open, and a
moment later they
were skimming through
the dusk.
strap. She could
have said,
But
of
course
she
meant
it
kindly.
Oh,
more
than
kindly.
She
was
going
to
prove
to
this
girl
that
—
wonderful
things
did happen
in
life,
that
—
fairy
godmothers
were
real,
that
—
rich
people
had
hearts,
and
that
women
were
sisters.
She
turned
impulsively,
saying:
Don't
PAGE
30
be
frightened. After all, why shouldn't you come back
with me ? We're both
women. If I'm the
more fortunate, you ought to
expect...
But
happily
at
that
moment,
for
she
didn't
know
how
the
sentence
was
going
to
end,
the
car
stopped.
The bell was rung, the door opened, and with a
charming, protecting, almost embracing
movement, Rosemary drew the other into
the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent,
all those
things so familiar to her she
never even thought about them, she watched that
other receive. It was
fascinating. She
was like the rich little girl in her nursery with
all the cupboards to open, all the
boxes to unpack.
And, besides, she wanted to
spare this poor little thing from being stared at
by the servants; she
decided as they
mounted the stairs she would not even ring for
Jeanne, but take off her things by
herself. The great thing was to be
natural!
And
drawn, the fire
leaping on her wonderful lacquer furniture, her
gold cushions and the primrose and
blue
rugs.
The girl stood just inside the
door she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't mind
that.