The Crack of Doom | Page 7

from vulgarity was becoming so thin I
was losing sight of the divisor. Yet no one, even the most fastidious,
could associate vulgarity with Natalie Brande. There remained an air of
unassumed sincerity about herself and all her actions, including even
her dress, which absolutely excluded her from hostile criticism. I could
not, however, extend that lenient judgment to Miss Metford. The girls
spoke and acted--as they had dressed them-selves--very much alike.
Only, what seemed to me in the one a natural eccentricity, seemed in
the other an unnatural affectation.
I saw the guard passing, and, calling him over, gave him half-a-crown
to have the compartment labelled, "Engaged."
Miss Brande, who had been looking out of the window, absently asked
my reason for this precaution.
I replied that I wanted the compartment reserved for ourselves. I
certainly did not want any staring and otherwise offensive
fellow-passengers.
"We don't want all the seats," she persisted.
"No," I admitted. "We don't want the extra seats. But I thought you
might like the privacy."

"The desire for privacy is an archaic emotion," Miss Metford remarked
sententiously, as she struck a match. "Besides, it is so selfish. We may
be crowding others," Miss Brande said quietly.
I was glad she did not smoke.
"I don't want that now," I said to a porter who was hurrying up with a
label. To the girls I remarked a little snappishly, "Of course you are
quite right. You must excuse my ignorance."
"No, it is not ignorance," Miss Brande demurred.
"You have been away so much. You have hardly been in England, you
told me, for years, and--"
"And progress has been marching in my absence," I interrupted.
"So it seems," Miss Metford remarked so significantly that I really
could not help retorting with as much emphasis, compatible with
politeness, as I could command:
"You see I am therefore unable to appreciate the New Woman, of
whom I have heard so much since I came home."
"The conventional New Woman is a grandmotherly old fossil," Miss
Metford said quietly.
This disposed of me. I leant back in my seat, and was rigidly silent.
Miles of green fields stippled with daisies and bordered with long lines
of white and red hawthorn hedges flew past. The smell of new-mown
hay filled the carriage with its sweet perfume, redolent of old
associations. My long absence dwindled to a short holiday. The world's
wide highways were far off. I was back in the English fields. My slight
annoyance passed away. I fell into a pleasant day-dream, which was
broken by a soft voice, every undulation of which I already knew by
heart.
"I am afraid you think us very advanced," it murmured.

"Very," I agreed, "but I look to you to bring even me up to date."
"Oh, yes, we mean to do that, but we must proceed very gradually."
"You have made an excellent start," I put in.
"Otherwise you would only be shocked."
"It is quite possible." I said this with so much conviction that the two
burst out laughing at me.
I could not think of anything more to add, and I felt relieved when, with
a warning shriek, the train dashed into a tunnel. By the time we had
emerged again into the sunlight and the solitude of the open landscape I
had ready an impromptu which I had been working at in the darkness. I
looked straight at Miss Metford and said:
"After all, it is very pleasant to travel with girls like you."
"Thank you!"
"You did not show any hysterical fear of my kissing you in the tunnel."
"Why the deuce would you do that?" Miss Metford replied with great
composure, as she blew a smoke ring.
When we reached our destination I braced myself for another
disagreeable minute or two. For if the great Londoners thought us
quaint, surely the little country station idlers would swear we were
demented. We crossed the platform so quickly that the wonderment we
created soon passed. Our luggage was looked after by a servant, to
whose care I confided it with a very brief description. The loss of an
item of it did not seem to me of as much importance as our own
immediate departure.
Brande met us at his hall door. His house was a pleasant one, covered
with flowering creeping plants, and surrounded by miniature forests. In
front there was a lake four hundred yards in width. Close-shaven lawns
bordered it. They were artificial products, no doubt, but they were

artificial successes--undulating, earth-scented, fresh rolled every
morning. Here there was an isolated shrub, there a thick bank of
rhododendrons. And the buds, bursting into floral carnival, promised
fine contrasts when their full splendour was come. The lake wavelets
tinkled musically on a pebbly beach.
Our host could