âShe is a famous hostess, with a talent for mimicry and a genius for making parties a success. She is charming and vivacious. In private life she is often irritable and sometimes unkind. She likes bridge and racing. She never opens a book, and she cannot bear to be alone. I have not the faintest idea of what she is really like.â He would not have added, because he did not know, that she was ruthless and predatory.
âWhy are you staring like that, Sebastian? You make me quite shy.â Her hair was about her shoulders now, and Button was busy with the curling-tongs. She heated them first on the spirit lamp, and then held them carefully to her own cheek to feel if they were hot enough. âBless the boy, one would think he had never watched me dress before. Now about that dinner table, yes, itâs all wrong; I thought it would be. She has clean forgotten the ambassador. Button, you must call Miss Waceâno, Sebastian, you fetch her. No, ring the bell; I donât want you to go away. Why on earth canât people do their own jobs properly? What do I pay Wacey a hundred and fifty a year for, I should like to know? Oh dear, and look at the time; I shall be late for dinner. I declare the trouble of entertaining is enough to spoil all oneâs pleasure. Itâs a little hard, I do think, that one should never have any undiluted pleasure in life. Whoâs that at the door? Button, go and see. And Miss Wace must come at once.â
âLady Viola would like to know if she may come and say good night to your Grace.â
âOh, bother the childâwell, yes, I suppose she must if she wants to. Now, Button, havenât you nearly finished? Donât drag my hair back like that, woman. Give me the tail comb. Donât you see, it wants more fullness at the side. Really, Button, I thought you were supposed to be an expert hair-dresser. You may think yourself lucky, Sebastian, that you were born a boy. This eternal hair, these eternal clothes! they wear a woman out before her time. Oh, there you are, Miss Wace. This plan is all wrongâperfectly hopeless. I donât go in with Lord Roehampton at all. âWhat about the ambassador? You must alter it. Do it in here, as quick as you can. Sebastian will help you. And Viola. Come in, Viola; donât look so scared, child; I canât bear people who look scared. Now I must leave you all while I wash. No, I donât want you now, Button; you get on my nerves. Iâll call you when I want you. Get my dress ready. Children, help Miss Waceâyes, you too, Viola; itâs high time you took a little trouble to help your poor motherâand do, all three of you, try to show a little intelligence.â
The duchess retired into her dressing room, from where she kept up a flow of comments.
âViola, you must really take a little more trouble about your appearance. You looked a perfect fright at luncheon today; I was ashamed of you. And you really must talk more, instead of sitting there like a stuffed doll. You had that nice Mr. Anquetil, who is perfectly easy to get on with. You might be ten, instead of seventeen. I have a good mind to start you coming down to dinner, except that you would cast a blight over everything. Girls are such a boreâpoor things, they canât help it, but really they are a problem. They ruin conversation; one has to be so careful. Women ought to be married, or at any rate widowed. I donât mean you, of course, Wacey. Iâm ready for you, Button.â
Button vanished into the dressing room, and for a while there was silence, broken only by irritable exclamations from within. These inner mysteries of his motherâs toilet were unknown to Sebastian, but Viola knew well enough what was going on: her mother was seated, poking at her hair meanwhile with fretful but experienced fingers, while Button knelt before her, carefully drawing the silk stockings on to her feet and smoothing them nicely up
Carmen Caine, Madison Adler