FOUR
ROSE felt obliged to tell Francie the next morning that she was going to dine that evening with Stephen Hume, but Francie made no comment beyond “Have a good time” as she was setting off. Francie had warned her once and there was really nothing more she could say or do, though she was a good deal worried about it.
Rose was in a state of strange agitation all that day. She did not know whether she was dreading the evening or wildly looking forward to it, but certainly she could think of nothing else, and a dozen times she told herself that whatever happened she must not lose her head. And then when the time at last came to dress (she was wearing again the kingfisher blue skirt she had worn at Clare’s party) she found herself thinking: “Perhaps he won’t be there after all; perhaps he has forgotten all about it,” and she knew that that would be worse than anything.
She took a taxi again to the Mirabelle, extravagant though it was, but it seemed all-important to arrive as cool and collected as possible; and in order to avoid arriving early she was five minutes late. There was a grand entrance in Curzon Street and a commissionaire to open the taxi door for her, but the restaurant itself was in the basement. As she went down the stairs Stephen rose from the table at which he had been sitting watching the people come in, and came to meet her. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said in a low voice as he took her hand, and at that moment all the warnings she had received were as nothing and she was aware only of her intense joy at seeing him again and her sense of safety at being in his presence.
“Would you like a drink here outside or shall we go straight in?” he asked.
“Just what you like.”
“Let’s go in then and have a drink at the table.”
He was greeted by the head-waiter as if he had been royalty and they were shown to a discreet corner table. The lighting was softly pink and the whole place had an air of great luxury. As yet there were only very few people, for it was early for dining out in London.
“Bring us two dry martinis right away,” Stephen ordered, “Now what do you want to eat? Or would you like to leave it to me?”
“Oh, yes I’d like to leave it to you.”
“Is there anything you don’t like?”
“Nothing except sweetbreads.”
“I don’t like them either ... Do you feel like a steak?”
“Not really. I’m not awfully hungry.”
“You’re all right?” he asked, suddenly anxious.
“Oh, yes. I feel wonderful.” She couldn’t tell him that she felt too excited to eat.
“We’ll have something light then. Some kind of fish to start with and a Montrachet to go with it.” He consulted with the waiter and while he did so Rose had a chance to look at him unobserved. She had never seen a more beautiful profile in any man. She felt that she knew for the first time what was meant by “a pure outline”.
“That’s over,” he said at last, sitting back. “Now we can get down to important things ... Are you happy?”
It was such an unexpected question that she found herself answering “Yes” from her heart.
“There’s so much I want to say to you and so much I want to hear from you that I don’t know where to begin. ... Rose ... Rose ... But tell me one thing first: is there anyone else?”
“No.” Her voice was almost inaudible.
“Something so extraordinary has happened to me that I don’t know whether I’m asleep or awake. When I first saw you the other evening something seemed to break inside me. I can’t explain it. It was as if I understood for the first time what life was all about. As if I’d suddenly come out of a fog in which I had been living all my life into the sunshine. You looked just like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea.”
“I had pollen on my nose,” she put in.
“That was when I realized that you must be as wonderful as you looked. Any other girl would have taken out a mirror and made a great song and dance
ROSE felt obliged to tell Francie the next morning that she was going to dine that evening with Stephen Hume, but Francie made no comment beyond “Have a good time” as she was setting off. Francie had warned her once and there was really nothing more she could say or do, though she was a good deal worried about it.
Rose was in a state of strange agitation all that day. She did not know whether she was dreading the evening or wildly looking forward to it, but certainly she could think of nothing else, and a dozen times she told herself that whatever happened she must not lose her head. And then when the time at last came to dress (she was wearing again the kingfisher blue skirt she had worn at Clare’s party) she found herself thinking: “Perhaps he won’t be there after all; perhaps he has forgotten all about it,” and she knew that that would be worse than anything.
She took a taxi again to the Mirabelle, extravagant though it was, but it seemed all-important to arrive as cool and collected as possible; and in order to avoid arriving early she was five minutes late. There was a grand entrance in Curzon Street and a commissionaire to open the taxi door for her, but the restaurant itself was in the basement. As she went down the stairs Stephen rose from the table at which he had been sitting watching the people come in, and came to meet her. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said in a low voice as he took her hand, and at that moment all the warnings she had received were as nothing and she was aware only of her intense joy at seeing him again and her sense of safety at being in his presence.
“Would you like a drink here outside or shall we go straight in?” he asked.
“Just what you like.”
“Let’s go in then and have a drink at the table.”
He was greeted by the head-waiter as if he had been royalty and they were shown to a discreet corner table. The lighting was softly pink and the whole place had an air of great luxury. As yet there were only very few people, for it was early for dining out in London.
“Bring us two dry martinis right away,” Stephen ordered, “Now what do you want to eat? Or would you like to leave it to me?”
“Oh, yes I’d like to leave it to you.”
“Is there anything you don’t like?”
“Nothing except sweetbreads.”
“I don’t like them either ... Do you feel like a steak?”
“Not really. I’m not awfully hungry.”
“You’re all right?” he asked, suddenly anxious.
“Oh, yes. I feel wonderful.” She couldn’t tell him that she felt too excited to eat.
“We’ll have something light then. Some kind of fish to start with and a Montrachet to go with it.” He consulted with the waiter and while he did so Rose had a chance to look at him unobserved. She had never seen a more beautiful profile in any man. She felt that she knew for the first time what was meant by “a pure outline”.
“That’s over,” he said at last, sitting back. “Now we can get down to important things ... Are you happy?”
It was such an unexpected question that she found herself answering “Yes” from her heart.
“There’s so much I want to say to you and so much I want to hear from you that I don’t know where to begin. ... Rose ... Rose ... But tell me one thing first: is there anyone else?”
“No.” Her voice was almost inaudible.
“Something so extraordinary has happened to me that I don’t know whether I’m asleep or awake. When I first saw you the other evening something seemed to break inside me. I can’t explain it. It was as if I understood for the first time what life was all about. As if I’d suddenly come out of a fog in which I had been living all my life into the sunshine. You looked just like Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea.”
“I had pollen on my nose,” she put in.
“That was when I realized that you must be as wonderful as you looked. Any other girl would have taken out a mirror and made a great song and dance
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