Eva Trout Read Online Free PDF Page A

pheasant-feather quivered like an antenna.
    “ I am in a hurry,” stated Catrina, looking away from Eva into a shop. “Father, in fact, will be going out of his mind.”
    “Give my affectionate greetings to Mr. Dancey!”
    The vicarage child (muffling, perhaps, a pang?) asked: “ Driving to London?”
    “No; to the train only. I wish not to be lost in the mists round London; I am not in the mood.” Staring at nothing, Eva beat the gauntlets together. “My hands are gone cold, cold, cold. I am cold all over.”
    “It’s a cold day,” said Catrina, nose in the air.
    “No, Catrina. Cold since I had his letter.”
    “Why? He can’t eat you; or can he?”
    “Certainly not ,” said Miss Trout. (The very idea!) “What did his letter say, then?” pursued Catrina.
    “Only it answered ‘yes,’ that he would see me if I was there today. No, it is not what he says; it is what I must!”
    Catrina confined herself to stamping her feet, with a trudging though static motion. Eva mourned on: “I am so afraid, Catrina.”
    “Well, keep calm.”
    “I cannot.”
    “You never can, somehow.”
    The distracted one ferreted under a gauntlet, laid bare her wrist watch. “My train—my train!” She wrenched the Jaguar’s door open, hurled in her handbag and, made bulky by finery, squeezed herself under the wheel. Hand on the still-open door, she informed Catrina: “I cannot stay much longer where I now am.”
    “O-oh?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “Have you had a row with them?”
    Eva did not reply: she was starting the car. “Most of your coat’s hanging out,” reported the child. Eva hauled in the ocelot, then drove off.
    White Kleenex, it was discovered, had run out—more on order, but what was the use of that? A choice between lemon and rose confronted Catrina. “Neither,” she said, “would be very appropriate for my father.” Everyone in the shop agreed fervently. “Still,” she sniffed, “needs must when the Devil drives.” She accordingly went away with a box of each.

FOUR

Conference

My dear Mrs. Arble,
    What is all this about? I have had a somewhat dismaying visit from Eva, since when I have half-expected to hear from you. That I have not done so leads me to hope that the situation of which she spoke to me does not, in fact, exist outside her own fancy. That could well be possible. You must, I take it, have known of her trip to London; that you knew of its purpose seems less likely. If you suspected nothing, that reassures me—there may be nothing?
    Nonetheless, this was the first I had heard of there being anything but harmony at Larkins. And should this be the first you have heard, pray forgive this letter. Perhaps I blunder? Frankly, my own instinct would be to let whatever this is blow over, but Eva is to an extent forcing my hand. She desires to leave your keeping, and has told me so. Not only does she desire to, she intends to. To put it abruptly, she might walk out.
    That, as I continue to see it, could be disastrous. I wonder, therefore, whether you and I had not better discuss this apparent crisis? That is to say, meet? I would come to Larkins, but that there would be Eva. If you could make it convenient to be in London, we might lunch? I could, I am certain, so adjust my engagements as as to be free any day you may name. I would suggest that this be a day in the near future.
    May I add, it would be a pleasure to me to renew our acquaintanceship.
    Yours ever sincerely, Constantine Ormeau.

    This letter, far from being a blunder, acted like a tonic on Iseult. It arrived in disguise: two sheets of deep azure monogrammed paper, overflowing with his distinctive handwriting, made their journey to Larkins inside a buff business envelope, the address typed. This precaution against the eye of Eva was not lost on Iseult, herself one of those few people who think of everything. She marked Constantine up for it. Also, the whiff of conspiracy was flattering. As, in the mood engendered, she