The Greatest Works of D. H. Lawrence. D. H. Lawrence

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      “Of course I do — I was only thinking what an extravagant mortal you are when you begin to buy. You know you mustn’t keep on always —”

      “Now — now, Sweet, don’t be naughty and preachey. It’s such a treat to go buying. You will come with me next time, won’t you? Oh, I have enjoyed it — but I wished you were there — Marie takes anything, she’s so easy to suit — I like to have a good buy — Oh, it was splendid! — and there’s lots more yet. Oh, did you see this cushion-cover — these are the colours I want for that room — gold and amber —”

      This was a bad opening. I watched the shadows darken farther and farther along the brightness, hushing the glitter of the water. I watched the golden ripeness come upon the west, and thought the rencontre was never to take place. At last, however, Lettie flung herself down with a sigh, saying she was tired.

      “Come into the dining-room and have a cup of tea,” said Mother. “I told Rebecca to mash when you came in.”

      “All right. Leslie’s coming up later on, I believe — about half-past eight, he said. Should I show him what I’ve bought?”

      “There’s nothing there for a man to see.”

      “I shall have to change my dress, and I’m sure I don’t want the fag. Rebecca, just go and look at the things I’ve bought — in the other room — and, Becky, fold them up for me, will you, and put them on my bed?”

      As soon as she’d gone out, Lettie said:

      “She’ll enjoy doing it, won’t she, Mother, they’re so nice! Do you think I need dress, Mother?”

      “Please yourself — do as you wish.”

      “I suppose I shall have to; he doesn’t like blouses and skirts of an evening, he says; he hates the belt. I’ll wear that old cream cashmere; it looks nice now I’ve put that new lace on it. Don’t those violets smell nice? — who got them?”

      “Cyril brought them in.”

      “George sent them you,” said I.

      “Well, I’ll just run up and take my dress off. Why are we troubled with men!”

      “It’s a trouble you like well enough,” said Mother. “Oh, do I? such a bother!” and she ran upstairs.

      The sun was red behind Highclose. I kneeled in the window seat and smiled at Fate and at people who imagine that strange states are near to the inner realities. The sun went straight down behind the cedar trees, deliberately, and, it seemed as I watched, swiftly lowered itself behind the trees, behind the rim of the hill.

      “I must go,” I said to myself, “and tell him she will not come.”

      Yet I fidgeted about the room, loth to depart. Lettie came down, dressed in white — or cream — cut low round the neck. She looked very delightful and fresh again, with a sparkle of the afternoon’s excitement still.

      “I’ll put some of these violets on me,” she said, glancing at herself in the mirror, and then taking the flowers from their water, she dried them, and fastened them among her lace.

      “Don’t Lettie and I look nice tonight?” she said, smiling, glancing from me to her reflection which was like a light in the dusky room.

      “That reminds me,” I said, “George Saxton wanted to see you this evening.”

      “Whatever for?”

      “I don’t know. They’ve got notice to leave their farm, and I think he feels a bit sentimental.”

      “Oh, well — is he coming here?”

      “He said would you go just a little way in the wood to meet him.”

      “Did he! Oh, indeed! Well, of course I can’t.”

      “Of course not — if you won’t. They’re his violets you’re wearing, by the way.”

      “Are they — let them stay, it makes no difference. But whatever did he want to see me for?”

      “I couldn’t say, I assure you.”

      She glanced at herself in the mirror, and then at the clock.

      “Let’s see,” she remarked, “it’s only a quarter to eight. Three-quarters of an hour —! But what can he want me for? — I never knew anything like it.”

      “Startling, isn’t it!” I observed satirically.

      “Yes.” She glanced at herself in the mirror.

      “I can’t go out like this.”

      “All right, you can’t then.”

      “Besides — it’s nearly dark, it will be too dark to see in the wood, won’t it?”

      “It will directly.”

      “Well, I’ll just go to the end of the garden, for one moment — run and fetch that silk shawl out of my wardrobe — be quick, while it’s light.”

      I ran and brought the wrap. She arranged it carefully over her head.

      We went out, down the garden path. Lettie held her skirts carefully gathered from the ground. A nightingale began to sing in the twilight; we stepped along in silence as far as the rhododendron bushes, now in rosy bud.

      “I cannot go into the wood,” she said.

      “Come to the top of the riding”— and we went round the dark bushes.

      George was waiting. I saw at once he was half distrustful of himself now. Lettie dropped her skirts and trailed towards him. He stood awkwardly awaiting her, conscious of the clownishness of his appearance. She held out her hand with something of a grand air.

      “See.” she said, “I have come.”

      “Yes — I thought you wouldn’t — perhaps”— he looked at her, and suddenly gained courage.

      “You have been putting white on — you, you do look nice — though not like —”

      “What? — Who else?”

      “Nobody else — only I— well, I’d — I’d thought about it different — like some pictures.”

      She smiled with a gentle radiance, and asked indulgently, “And how was I different?”

      “Not all that soft stuff — plainer.”

      “But don’t I look very nice with all this soft stuff, as you call it?”— and she shook the silk away from her smiles.

      “Oh, yes — better than those naked lines.”

      “You are quaint tonight — what did you want me for — to say good-bye?”

      “Good-bye?”

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