Chapter V

During the summer I met Mrs. Strickland not infrequently. I went now and then to pleasant little luncheons¹ at her flat, and to rather more formidable tea-parties. We took a fancy to one another. I was very young, and perhaps she liked the idea of guiding my virgin² steps on the hard road of letters; while for me it was pleasant to have someone I could go to with my small troubles, certain of an attentive³ ear and reasonable counsel. Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy. It is a charming faculty⁴, but one often abused by those who are conscious of its possession: for there is something ghoulish in the avidity with which they will pounce⁵ upon the misfortune of their friends so that they may exercise their dexterity⁶. It gushes⁷ forth⁸ like an oil-well, and the sympathetic pour out their sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes embarrassing to their victims. There are bosoms⁹ on which so many tears have been shed that I cannot bedew them with mine. Mrs. Strickland used her advantage with tact¹⁰. You felt that you obliged her by accepting her sympathy. When, in the enthusiasm of my youth, I remarked on this to Rose Waterford, she said:

“Milk is very nice, especially with a drop of brandy in it, but the domestic cow is only too glad to be rid of it. A swollen¹¹ udder is very uncomfortable.”

Rose Waterford had a blistering¹² tongue. No one could say such bitter things; on the other hand, no one could do more charming ones.

There was another thing I liked in Mrs. Strickland. She managed her surroundings with elegance¹³. Her flat was always neat and cheerful, gay with flowers, and the chintzes in the drawing-room, notwithstanding their severe design, were bright and pretty. The meals in the artistic¹⁴ little dining-room were pleasant; the table looked nice, the two maids were trim and comely¹⁵; the food was well cooked. It was impossible not to see that Mrs. Strickland was an excellent housekeeper¹⁶. And you felt sure that she was an admirable mother. There were photographs in the drawing-room of her son and daughter. The son—his name was Robert—was a boy of sixteen at Rugby; and you saw him in flannels¹⁷ and a cricket cap, and again in a tail-coat and a stand-up collar. He had his mother’s candid¹⁸ brow and fine, reflective eyes. He looked clean, healthy, and normal.

“I don’t know that he’s very clever,” she said one day, when I was looking at the photograph, “but I know he’s good. He has a charming character.”

The daughter was fourteen. Her hair, thick and dark like her mother’s, fell over her shoulders in fine profusion¹⁹, and she had the same kindly²⁰ expression and sedate²¹, untroubled eyes.

“They’re both of them the image of you,” I said.

“Yes; I think they are more like me than their father.”

“Why have you never let me meet him?” I asked.

“Would you like to?”

She smiled, her smile was really very sweet, and she blushed a little; it was singular that a woman of that age should flush so readily. Perhaps her naivete was her greatest charm.

“You know, he’s not at all literary,” she said. “He’s a perfect philistine²².”

She said this not disparagingly²³, but affectionately rather, as though, by acknowledging the worst about him, she wished to protect him from the aspersions of her friends.

“He’s on the Stock Exchange, and he’s a typical broker²⁴. I think he’d bore you to death.”

“Does he bore you?” I asked.

“You see, I happen to be his wife. I’m very fond of him.”

She smiled to cover her shyness, and I fancied she had a fear that I would make the sort of gibe²⁵ that such a confession²⁶ could hardly have failed to elicit²⁷ from Rose Waterford. She hesitated a little. Her eyes grew tender.

“He doesn’t pretend to be a genius. He doesn’t even make much money on the Stock Exchange. But he’s awfully²⁸ good and kind.”

“I think I should like him very much.”

“I’ll ask you to dine with us quietly some time, but mind, you come at your own risk; don’t blame me if you have a very dull evening.”