The Hollow

"Yes-and I really do feel that she will be a tower of strength. She always is. Henrietta, you know, is really kind-kind all through, not just on top. She will help a lot with poor Gerda. She was simply wonderful last year.

That was the time we played limericks, or wordmaking, or quotations-or one of those things, and we had all finished and were reading them out when we suddenly discovered that poor dear Gerda hadn't even begun.

She wasn't even sure what the game was. It was dreadful, wasn't it. Midge?"

"Why anyone ever comes to stay with the

Angkatells, I don't know," said Midge.

"What with the brainwork, and the round games, and your peculiar style of conversation, Lucy."

"Yes, darling, we must be trying-and it must always be hateful for Gerda, and I often think that if she had any spirit she would stay away-but, however, there it was, and the poor dear looked so bewildered and-well-mortified, you know. And John looked so dreadfully impatient. And I simply couldn't think of how to make things all right again-and it was then that I felt so grateful to Henrietta. She turned right round to Gerda and asked about the pullover she was wearing-really a dreadful affair in faded lettuce green-too depressing and jumble sale, darling-and Gerda brightened up at once; it seems that she had knitted it herself, and Henrietta asked her for the pattern, and Gerda looked so happy and proud. And that is what I mean about Henrietta. She can always do that sort of thing. It's a kind of knack."

"She takes trouble," said Midge slowly.

"Yes, and she knows what to say."

"Ah," said Midge. "But it goes further than saying. Do you know, Lucy, that Henrietta actually knitted that pullover."

"Oh, my dear." Lady Angkatell looked grave. "And wore it?"

"And wore it. Henrietta carries things through."

"And was it very dreadful?"

"No. On Henrietta it looked very nice."

"Well, of course, it would. That's just the difference between Henrietta and Gerda.

Everything Henrietta does she does well and it turns out right. She's clever about nearly everything, as well as in her own line. I must say. Midge, that if anyone carries us through this week-end, it will be Henrietta. She will be nice to Gerda and she will amuse Henry, and she'll keep John in a good temper and I'm sure she'll be most helpful with David-"

"David Angkatell?"

"Yes. He's just down from Oxford-or perhaps Cambridge. Boys of that age are so difficult-especially when they are intellectual.

David is very intellectual. One wishes that they could put off being intellectual until they were rather older. As it is, they always glower at one so and bite their nails and seem to have so many spots and sometimes an Adam's apple as well. And they either won't speak at all, or else are very loud and contradictory. Still, as I say, I am trusting to Henrietta. She is very tactful and asks the right kind of questions, and being a sculptress they respect her, especially as she doesn't just carve animals or children's heads but does advanced things like that curious affair in metal and plaster that she exhibited at the New Artists last year. It looked rather like a Heath Robinson step ladder. It was called Ascending Thought-or something like that. It is the kind of thing that would impress a boy like David… I thought myself it was just silly."

"Dear Lucy!"

"But some of Henrietta's things I think are quite lovely. That Weeping Ash tree figure for instance."

"Henrietta has a touch of real genius, I think. And she is a very lovely and satisfying person as well," said Midge.

Lady Angkatell got up and drifted over to the window again. She played absentmindediy with the blind cord.

"Why acorns, I wonder?" she murmured.

"Acorns?"

"On the blind cord. Like pineapples on gates. I mean, there must be a reason. Because it might just as easily be a fir cone or a pear, but it's always an acorn. Mash, they call it in crosswords-you know, for pigs.

So curious, I always think."

"Don't ramble off, Lucy. You came in here to talk about the week-end and I can't see why you are so anxious about it. If you manage to keep off round games, and try to be coherent when you're talking to Gerda, and put Henrietta on to tame the intellectual David, where is the difficulty?"

"Well, for one thing, darling, Edward is coming."

"Oh, Edward." Midge was silent for a moment after saying the name.

Then she asked quietly:

"What on earth made you ask Edward for this weekend?"

"I didn't. Midge. That's just it. He asked himself. Wired to know if we could have him. You know what Edward is. How sensitive.

If I'd wired back 'No,' he'd probably never have asked himself again. He's like that."

Midge nodded her head slowly.

Yes, she thought, Edward was like that.

For an instant she saw his face clearly, that very dearly loved face. A face with something of Lucy's insubstantial charm; gentle, diffident, ironic…

"Dear Edward," said Lucy, echoing the thought in Midge's mind.

She went on impatiently: