Fraternity. John Galsworthy
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Hops for Working Girls. She seemed to know every man and woman who was worth knowing, and some besides; to see all picture-shows; to hear every new musician; and attend the opening performance of every play. With regard to literature, she would say that authors bored her; but she was always doing them good turns, inviting them to meet their critics or editors, and sometimes—though this was not generally known—pulling them out of the holes they were prone to get into, by lending them a sum of money—after which, as she would plaintively remark; she rarely saw them more.
She had a peculiar spiritual significance to Mrs. Stephen Dallison, being just on the borderline between those of Bianca's friends whom Cecilia did not wish and those whom she did wish to come to her own house, for Stephen, a barrister in an official position, had a keen sense of the ridiculous. Since Hilary wrote books and was a poet, and Bianca painted, their friends would naturally be either interesting or queer; and though for Stephen's sake it was important to establish which was which, they were so very often both. Such people stimulated, taken in small doses, but neither on her husband's account nor on her daughter's did Cecilia desire that they should come to her in swarms. Her attitude of mind towards them was, in fact, similar-a sort of pleasurable dread-to that in which she purchased the Westminster Gazette to feel the pulse of social progress.
Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace's dark little eyes twinkled.
“I hear that Mr. Stone—that is your father's name, I think—is writing a book which will create quite a sensation when it comes out.”
Cecilia bit her lips. “I hope it never will come out,” she was on the point of saying.
“What will it be called?” asked Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “I gather that it's a book of Universal Brotherhood. That's so nice!”
Cecilia made a movement of annoyance. “Who told you?”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, “I do think your sister gets such attractive people at her At Homes. They all take such interest in things.”
A little surprised at herself, Cecilia answered “Too much for me!”
Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace smiled. “I mean in art and social questions. Surely one can't be too interested in them?”
Cecilia said rather hastily:
“Oh no, of course not.” And both ladies looked around them. A buzz of conversation fell on Cecilia's ears.
“Have you seen the 'Aftermath'? It's really quite wonderful!”
“Poor old chap! he's so rococo. …”
“There's a new man.
“She's very sympathetic.
“But the condition of the poor. …
“Is that Mr. Balladyce? Oh, really.
“It gives you such a feeling of life.
“Bourgeois! …”
The voice of Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace broke through: “But do please tell me who is that young girl with the young man looking at the picture over there. She's quite charming!”
Cecilia's cheeks went a very pretty pink.
“Oh, that's my little daughter.”
“Really! Have you a daughter as big as that? Why, she must be seventeen!”
“Nearly eighteen!”
“What is her name?”
“Thyme,” said Cecilia, with a little smile. She felt that Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace was about to say: 'How charming!'
Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace saw her smile and paused. “Who is the young man with her?”
“My nephew, Martin Stone.”
“The son of your brother who was killed with his wife in that dreadful Alpine accident? He looks a very decided sort of young man. He's got that new look. What is he?”
“He's very nearly a doctor. I never know whether he's quite finished or not.”
“I thought perhaps he might have something to do with Art.”
“Oh no, he despises Art.”
“And does your daughter despise it, too?”
“No; she's studying it.”
“Oh, really! How interesting! I do think the rising generation amusing, don't you? They're so independent.”
Cecilia looked uneasily at the rising generation. They were standing side by side before the picture, curiously observant and detached, exchanging short remarks and glances. They seemed to watch all these circling, chatting, bending, smiling people with a sort of youthful, matter-of-fact, half-hostile curiosity. The young man had a pale face, clean-shaven, with a strong jaw, a long, straight nose, a rather bumpy forehead which did not recede, and clear grey eyes. His sarcastic lips were firm and quick, and he looked at people with disconcerting straightness. The young girl wore a blue-green frock. Her face was charming, with eager, hazel-grey eyes, a bright colour, and fluffy hair the colour of ripe nuts.
“That's your sister's picture, 'The Shadow,' they're looking at, isn't it?” asked Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace. “I remember seeing it on Christmas Day, and the little model who was sitting for it—an attractive type! Your brother-in-law told me how interested you all were in her. Quite a romantic story, wasn't it, about her fainting from want of food when she first came to sit?”
Cecilia murmured something. Her hands were moving nervously; she looked ill at ease.
These signs passed unperceived by Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace, whose eyes were busy.
“In the F.H.M.P., of course, I see a lot of young girls placed in delicate positions, just on the borders, don't you know? You should really join the F.H.M.P., Mrs. Dallison. It's a first-rate thing—most absorbing work.”
The doubting deepened in Cecilia's eyes.
“Oh, it must be!” she said. “I've so little time.”
Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace went on at once.
“Don't you think that we live in the most interesting days? There are such a lot of movements going on. It's quite exciting. We all feel that we can't shut our eyes any longer to social questions. I mean the condition of the people alone is enough to give one nightmare!”
“Yes, yes,” said Cecilia; “it is dreadful, of course.
“Politicians and officials are so hopeless, one can't look for anything from them.”
Cecilia drew herself up. “Oh, do you think so?” she said.
“I was just talking to Mr. Balladyce. He says that Art and Literature must be put on a new basis altogether.”
“Yes,” said Cecilia; “really? Is he that funny little man?”
“I think he's so monstrously clever.”
Cecilia answered quickly: “I know—I know. Of course, something must be done.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace absently, “I think we all feel that. Oh, do tell me! I've been talking to such a delightful person—just the type you see when you go into the City—thousands of them, all in such good black coats. It's so unusual to really meet one nowadays; and they're so refreshing, they have such nice simple views. There he is, standing just behind your sister.”
Cecilia by a nervous gesture indicated that she recognized the personality alluded to. “Oh, yes,” she said; “Mr. Purcey. I don't know why he comes to see us.”
“I think he's so delicious!” said Mrs. Tallents Smallpeace dreamily. Her little dark eyes, like bees, had flown to sip honey from the flower in question—a man of broad build and medium height, dressed. with accuracy, who seemed just a little out of his