The Garden Party | Page 5

was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some
one below." You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of
it. He stopped splashing. "Look here, Trout," he said, "I'm in rather a
hurry this morning."
"You're WHAT?" Jonathan was so surprised--or pretended to be--that
he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing.
"All I mean is," said Stanley, "I've no time to--to--to fool about. I want
to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've work to do this morning--see?"
Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. "Pass, friend!" said the
bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a
ripple...But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What an
unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and then
as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt
cheated.
Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving
his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It
was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell.
True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at
him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something
pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn't
help feeling he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almighty
cropper he'd come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan,
rode past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a

beauty! And now there came another. That was the way to
live--carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and
began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm,
wrinkled sand. To take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and
flow of life, but to give way to it--that was what was needed. It was this
tension that was all wrong. To live--to live! And the perfect morning,
so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as though laughing at its own
beauty, seemed to whisper, "Why not?"
But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He
ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out
of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he
too felt his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long.
Chapter 1.
III.
Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a
blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost
uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day.
Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his
plate.
"I've just got twenty-five minutes," he said. "You might go and see if
the porridge is ready, Beryl?"
"Mother's just gone for it," said Beryl. She sat down at the table and
poured out his tea.
"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he said in an astonished voice,
"you've forgotten the sugar."
"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help him; she pushed the basin
across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes
widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-
law and leaned back.

"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar.
Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers.
"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at
Stanley. "Why should there be?"
"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather--"
At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each
carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and
knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and
pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs.
Fairfield with the tray.
"Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very
greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you said
good morning to your father?"
"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley
and Beryl.
"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate.
"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"
"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!"
The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the
open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open
window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare
floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there
was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She
smiled, and a look of deep