Thank Heaven Fasting (5 page)

Monica straightened her shoulders, drank some cold water, and addressed Mr. Claude Ashe once more.

“Do you know Lady Marlowe's two daughters—Frederica and Cecily?”

She was quite aware that he did, for she had heard Frederica mention his name, but she had not been able to think of anything else to say. However, it served to start a conversation again, and that was all that mattered.

Ten minutes later the eye of Lady Margaret Miller had been successfully caught by that of her hostess, and the ladies, rustling and tinkling and murmuring, had passed out of the door and were going up the stairs, Monica naturally coming last.

The comparative coolness of the hall and staircase came as a relief after the lengthy procession of courses in the dining-room, the blazing lights all round the room, and the strained excitement of making conversation.

There was the customary pause on the landing.

“Would you care to——? Monica darling, show Lady Margaret the way upstairs—? Would anyone else——? Yes, of course, Monica will show you. Turn on the light over my dressing-table, darling.”

As if one wouldn't have thought of that without being told! Naturally people would want to powder their noses. Nearly every face was flushed and shining.

Monica seized an opportunity to fly upstairs to her own room and use her powder-puff vigorously. Heavens, it was only ten o'clock, and they weren't to start till eleven! It wouldn't have been as early as that, if her mother hadn't been one of the hostesses.

She hurried down again, and then sedately followed in the rear of the procession of descending ladies.

Mrs. Ingram had said:

“Before the men come up, after dinner, you must talk to one or two of the girls. It's the greatest possible mistake to think that it doesn't matter about making friends with other girls. It's
most
important. They can help you in all kinds of ways.”

In one way especially, of course, Monica understood perfectly. It was through the good offices of other, slightly older, girls, that one might hope to meet young men.

Monica, reflecting thus, talked very readily to the other girls present, none of whom she knew very well. Lady Margaret Miller also spoke to her, and one or two of the elder ladies.

They all said the same thing.

“How do you like being grown-up?”

“Is this your first ball?”

One woman said: “My girl must introduce some of her partners to you. It makes such a difference,” she added, as if half apologetically, to Monica's mother. “It makes such a difference, having been out a year or two. They've made their own friends by then.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Ingram agreed.

“It won't be long, I'm
sure,
before Monica has plenty of friends of her own.”

They both laughed a little, but Monica felt that the eyes of her seniors had rested upon her with approval. She returned to make conversation with her contemporaries, all of them more or less covertly on the alert for the arrival of the men from the dining-room. When, however, the door at last opened, they talked to one another with added animation, and were careful not to turn round.

It seemed quite a long while before a general movement actually took place, and then, to her dismay, Monica found that she was still talking to another girl and that all the men seemed to be occupied with somebody else.

It was disappointing, and rather humiliating. Monica hoped, without much conviction, that her mother would not notice. However, it did not last long.

Lady Margaret Miller, very tactfully, said that it was a shame to keep the young things from their dancing, and that in any case she was sure dear Mrs. Ingram ought to be at the Ritz not a moment later than eleven o'clock.

There was an unconvincing demur from Mrs. Ingram, a general movement, and then Monica's father rang the bell and cabs and carriages were ordered. The brougham had been in waiting for nearly an hour.

“We shall meet later, then.”

“I shall see you at the Ritz.”

“I'll wait just outside the ball-room. It's been too delightful, coming here to-night….”

“I hope you'll enjoy your first ball, Monica, and dance every single dance.”

The party dispersed. Not all of them were going on to the ball. Some of the elder people had declined it and several others were due first at an Embassy reception.

“Now, Monica—let me have a look at you. Yes, very nice, darling. Your hair has kept in beautifully. Run upstairs and powder your nose and get your cloak, and we'll start at once.”

In the brougham Mrs. Ingram was tense and preoccupied. Monica and her father talked to one another—but not very much.

“How did you get on at dinner, eh?”

“Quite well, thank you, father. I enjoyed it very much.”

“That's right, my little girl. You looked very nice, and I thought you seemed to be having quite a pleasant time with our friends at the dinner-table.”

Mentally translating, Monica knew this meant that she had not fallen into any awkward silences, but had contrived to keep the young men on either side of her engaged in conversation. She felt pleased, in spite of the acute sensation of suspense that was invading her more and more strongly as the climax of the evening approached.

“We're in very good time,” said Mrs. Ingram abruptly. Monica could tell from her tone that she, too, was nervous. No wonder.

Almost directly, as it seemed, they were at the palm-and flower decked entrance to the ball-room exchanging greetings with Lady Marlowe, superb and yet animated in her low-cut green satin, with an emerald tiara, emerald necklace, and large fan of white ostrich-feathers.

Frederica and Cecily hovered just behind her.

Frederica's dress was of pale blue with an edging of silver lace, and she held a bouquet of white roses. It was characteristic of her that the roses had already wilted in her limp grasp, and made a faint stain against the front of her dress.

Cecily was in white, and held a lace handkerchief and a small lace fan, instead of a bouquet. Her dress was more becoming than Frederica's, and she looked prettier than her sister. Her thick, beautiful fair hair curved away on either side of her brow with an effect as different as possible from that produced by the hard, regular undulations inflicted by the curling-irons on the heads of Monica and Frederica.

“How nice your hair looks, Cecily!”

“So does yours. Was the dinner-party fun?”

“Yes, quite. I sat between two men you know—Mr. Ashe and Mr. Miller.”

“Peter Miller—oh yes. He's a sort of cousin of ours. Did you get on with him all right?”

“Oh, quite. I liked the other one better—Mr. Ashe. He asked me to keep some dances for him.”

“Did he?” said Cecily, obviously impressed.

“Naturally,” Frederica joined in. “Of course, everyone who dined at your house will ask you for at least two dances, Monica. They'll have to. I don't mean they won't want to, of course, but it's an understood thing.”

Monica decided, not for the first time, that Cecily was much nicer than her sister.

“Here's the band,” murmured Cecily, and at that moment Lady Marlowe called them to attention.

“Come along, girls! People will be arriving in a minute. You can chatter some other time. Now, remember: no dancing before twelve o'clock at the very earliest. I shall
want you here, Frederica. It doesn't matter about you, Cecily—in fact, I think you'd better start dancing as soon as anyone asks you.”

Lady Marlowe turned half apologetically towards Mrs. Ingram.

“Don't you think
so?
Three girls are really too many. Of course, Fricky and Monica must be here to say How d'y do; but Cecily is almost better out of the way—don't you agree?”

Mrs. Ingram, wording it politely, quite evidently did agree. Cecily retired to a little gilt chair inside the ball-room, and sat there looking very unhappy, until she was joined by the first arrivals.

Monica, standing close to her mother, heard Lady Marlowe say in the clear, amused voice that she kept for her most unkind sayings:

“My dear, be thankful that you've only one daughter. It's all right if the elder is safely married off before the younger one comes out; but if they're both hanging on at home together, it hampers one too
dreadfully.”

Monica did not look at Frederica, who must have heard.

She knew too well the look of sick humiliation that would come into her eyes, the slow tide of colour that would mount into her face.

Monica felt sorry for her.

“Darling,
wake up!”
hissed her mother.

People were beginning to arrive.

Monica put back her shoulders, smiled brightly, and fastened her white kid gloves preparatory to the exchange of a number of hand-shakes with other white kid gloves.

She heard all the names announced in an enormous, and yet modulated, shout by a strange man standing in the doorway, but people came so fast that she was not able to identify them. It was with quite a rush of astonished relief that she found herself facing white eyelashes, and a smile that seemed oddly familiar.

“Oh—Mr. Ashe!”

“What about those dances that you promised me? When may I have them?”

“I'm not to dance before twelve,'” she said doubtfully.

“Then the first waltz after twelve o'clock. I'll come for you here. Just the contrary of Cinderella!”

Monica found this amusing, and looked up at him and laughed. There was something agreeable in being obliged to look up at him, for she was tall enough to meet the eyes of most men on a level.

For a few minutes more Mr. Ashe stayed beside her, speaking to her very little, but, she felt, watching her. Monica became rather self-conscious, and tried to vary the tones of her stereotyped “How d'y do” and to shake hands at a new angle. Then, glancing round over her shoulder, she saw that he had passed on into the ball-room.

She wondered when it would be twelve o'clock. Soon, she hoped.

The stream of arrivals had stopped, and Lady Marlowe was sitting down, talking and laughing with a group of people, mostly men.
She
never had any difficulty in attracting, and keeping, the attention of men, thought Monica enviously.

Her own mother, her sequins glittering and her face becomingly flushed, was actually telling someone that supper was going on now.

Then it must be twelve o'clock.

Frederica approached Monica.

“We can dance now,” she said eagerly. “Is your card full?”

“Quite full, thank you.”

“Who is taking you down to supper?”

“A man who came to dinner with us. I can't remember his name.”

“Our dance, I think. Miss Ingram.”

It was Claude Ashe.

Monica looked at her mother, received a smiling nod of dismissal, and went off into the crowded ball-room. There
was very little room for dancing, but she and Claude Ashe revolved as briskly as was possible.

Monica enjoyed dancing, and the swift motion was a relief after standing so long.

She and her partner did not speak, at first, and Monica had leisure to look at her own reflection in the long glasses on the walls. She saw that she was wearing too serious an expression. Both her mother and the dancing-mistress had warned her about this, and she immediately assumed an air of fresh, sparkling enjoyment.

Once or twice she passed Frederica, dancing solemnly with Mr. Pelham. Monica could not remember having seen him arrive, but they exchanged bows and a smile. She wondered whether he would ask her to dance later. She had nothing left, excepting one of the “extras.”

With a little shock of compassion she saw Cecily Marlowe—a wall-flower—sitting at the end of a row of chaperons, her face blank, her eyes and mouth listless.

Monica quickly looked away from her.

How
awful
to have to sit like that—so that everybody knew one wasn't being a success! Monica, gracefully twirling round and round with her partner, realized that the same thing might happen to herself at any time; but at least, she thought, if it did, she would pretend that she didn't mind a bit—would laugh and talk to the chaperons, so that perhaps people would think: What a nice, kind-hearted girl! She's ready to give up a dance for the sake of being attentive to her mother's friends!

“Are you enjoying your first ball?” Ashe asked her.

“Oh yes.” Monica threw additional vivacity into her manner and expression. Her mother had often told her that men liked a girl to seem bright and happy, and to enjoy things.

“I expect you love dancing, don't you? You waltz most awfully well, if I may say so.”

“Oh, I don't think I do it a
bit
well. I really don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

The waltz, to Monica's regret, came to an end.

Mr. Ashe took her to a comer, where two small armchairs stood beneath a potted palm.

“Shall I get you an ice or anything?”

“No, thank you, really, I shall be going down to supper next dance.”

Monica felt that it might be as well to let him know that. It was always very important to be booked for supper. If a man asked if he might take one in to supper it meant that he really did want to talk to one.

These considerations did not formulate themselves very clearly in Monica's consciousness: they were simply amongst the things that she knew and accepted.

Ashe began to talk to her about South Wales, where his home was. It transpired that he liked sketching, and botany. He was rather apologetic about the latter taste, but said, as though in extenuation, that he had been allowed to make a hobby of it at Eton.

Monica said that she thought botany must be very interesting.

Had she, Claude Ashe wanted to know, ever been to Kew Gardens?

Monica never had. She immediately added that she had always
wanted
to go there.

What a triumph if this young man, whom she had only met to-night for the first time, were to suggest taking her there! Something would have to be arranged in the way of chaperonage, of course, but Monica knew that that would all be done for her.