knew, as I sat there amusing him while the band played "Lover," that many things which had felt natural to me before I first heard it would never feel natural again.
It wasn't only the black dress that had made me grow up.
Rose and Neil came back when the music stopped; then Neil went off to order us some drinks.
"That was a good tune that last one," she remarked.
"What's it called ?"
"I'm afraid I didn't notice it," said Simon.
"Nor I," I said.
Rose sat down in the opposite alcove and put her feet up.
"Tired?" Simon asked, going over to her.
She said: "Yes, very," and didn't offer to make room for him; so he sat on the floor beside her.
"Would you like me to take you home as soon as we've had our drinks ?"
he asked, and she said she would.
Neil would have stayed on with me, but I said we couldn't keep dancing without shoes in that corridor.
"It does begin to feel like a padded cell," he admitted.
I shall never forget it--the thick carpet, the brocade-covered the
bright lights staring back from the gilt mirrors;
everything was so luxurious--and so meaningless, so lifeless.
When we reached the entrance to the flats Neil said he wouldn't come
up, but he walked along to the lift with us and managed so that he and I were well behind the others.
"This looks like being good-bye for us," he said.
I felt a sadness quite separate from my personal ton of misery.
"But we'll meet again someday, won't we?"
"Why, surely. You must come to America."
"Won't you ever come back here?"
He said he doubted it--then laughed and added:
"Well, maybe I will, when I'm a rich old man."
"Why do you dislike us so, Neil ?"
"I don't dislike you," he said quickly.
"Oh, I don't dislike any thing. But I'm just all wrong over here."
Then the others called that the lift was waiting for me, so we shook
hands quickly. I hated to think it might be years and years before I
saw him again.
There was a message from Stephen for me at the flat --I had quite
forgotten that he was going to telephone me. Rose read aloud:
"For Miss C. Mortmain from Mr. S. Colly. The gentleman asked to say that he was completely at your service if required."
"I do call that a nice message," said Simon.
"Hadn't you better call him back?"
"Oh, leave it till the morning," said Rose, "and let's go to bed.
I've hardly had a chance to talk to you yet."
Just then Topaz came out of her bedroom and said she wanted to speak to me.
"Can't you wait until tomorrow?" asked Rose.
Topaz said she didn't see why she should.
"It's only half-past ten and I came back early on purpose."
"Well, hurry up, anyway," said Rose.
Topaz took me up to the roof-garden.
"You never know if you're going to be overheard in that flat," she said. It was nice on the roof, there were lots of little trees in
tubs, and some pretty garden furniture. No one but us was about. We
sat down on a large swinging seat and I waited for her to say something important;
but, as I might have guessed, she only wanted to talk about Father.
"I hardly had a minute with him when he stayed here," she said.
"My room's too small to share. And Mrs.
Cotton kept him up talking very late both nights."
I asked if she was still worried about them.
"Oh, not in the way I was. Anyway, there's certainly nothing on her side. I see now it's not the man she's interested in, but the famous
man--if he'll oblige her by being one again.
She hopes be will and she wants to have a hand in it. So does
Simon."
"Well, what's wrong with that?" I said.
"You know they mean it kindly."
"Simon does; he's interested in Mortmain's work for its own sake --and for Mortmain's sake. But I think Mrs.
Cotton's just a celebrity collector--she even values me now that she's seen some of the paintings of me."
"She asked you to stay with her before she saw them," I said.
I like Mrs. Cotton; and her kindness to our family has been little
short of fabulous.
"Go on--tell me I'm unjust." Topaz heaved one of her groaning sighs, then added: "I know I am, really. But she gets on my nerves until I could scream. Why doesn't she get on Mortmain's? It's a mystery to
me. Talk, talk, talk--and never did I see such vitality.
I don't believe it's normal for a woman of her age to be so healthy.
If you ask me, it's glandular."
I began to laugh, then saw she was perfectly serious; "glandular" has always been a popular word with Topaz.
"Well, come back to the castle and take a rest," I suggested.
"That's what I wanted to ask you about. Has Mortmain showed the
slightest sign of needing me?"
I tried to think of a tactful way to say "No."
Fortunately, she went straight on: "I've got to be needed,
Cassandra--I always have been. Men have either painted me, or been in love with me, or just plain ill-treated me- some men have to do a lot of ill-treating, you know, it's good for their work; but one way or
another, I've always been needed.
I've got to inspire people, Cassandra--it's my job in life." I told her then that I had a faint hope that Father was working.
"Do you mean I've inspired him just by keeping away from him?" We both roared with laughter. Topaz's sense of humor is intermittent, but good when it turns up. When we had calmed down, she said: "What do you think of Aubrey Fox-Cotton ?"
"Not much," I said.
"Does he need inspiring? He seems to be doing pretty well as it is."
"He could do greater work.
He feels he could."
"You mean, if you both got divorces and married each other ?"
"Well, not exactly," said Topaz. I suddenly felt it was an important moment and wondered what on earth I could say to influence her. It was no use pretending that Father needed her, because I knew she would find out he didn't before she had been home half an hour.
At last I said: "I suppose it wouldn't be enough that Thomas and I need you ?" She looked pleased -then came out with a dreadful Topazism:
"Oh, darling! But can't you see that art comes before the individual?"
Inspiration came to me.
"Then you can't leave Father," I said.
"Oh, Topaz-don't you see that whether he misses you or not, a shock like that might wreck him completely? Just imagine his biographer
writing: "Mortmain was about to start on the second phase of his career, when the faithlessness of his artist-model wife shattered the fabric of his life. We shall never know what was lost to the world
through this worthless young woman " and you never would know, Topaz, because if Father never wrote another line after you left him, you'd
always feel it might be your fault." She was staring at me--I could see I was making a magnificent impression. Luckily it hadn't struck
her that no one will write Father's biography unless he does do some
more work.
"Can't you see how posterity would misjudge you?" I piled it on.
"While if you stick to him, you may be "this girl, beautiful as a Blake angel, who sacrificed her own varied talents to ensure Mortmain's
renaissance."" I stopped, fearing I had overdone it, but she swallowed it all.
"Oh, darling--you ought to write the biography yourself," she gasped.
"I will, I will," I assured her, and wondered if she would consider staying on to inspire me; but I think she only sees herself as an
inspirer of men. Anyway, I didn't need to worry, because she said in
her most double-bass tones:
"Cassandra, you have saved me from a dreadful mistake. Thank you, thank you."