A World of Love by Elizabeth Bowen Read Free Book Online Page A

till a meal was done.)
    Antonia’s eyes were darker than Jane’s in colour, and more human. Their surrounds had a smoky, smudged look which was picturesque, and endemic: she did not use mascara—these were Irish eyes, communicative and often hostile, sunk in a face which had, more or less, by now come to look cosmopolitan. Cheek bones wore rouge like an ingrained tarnish; the hair, from which the effects of expert cutting, tinting and burnishing were at Montefort beginning to wear off, was raked upward, exposing the hardy forehead. The mouth would have been forcible without paint, the jaw had kept its angular outline, and the skin wore well in spite of all—it, too, had the benefit of sporadic care. She had kept up her looks, such as they were; while showing a slapdash disregard for them. Antonia’s face, in spite of its show of indolence, had something energetic about the cast of it—nothing sagged except when she foresaw death: there were hollows, tensions and shadows, but they were speaking ones, kept in play by the contrarieties-of her mood, the many dissonances of her nature. What was in her stayed unresigned, untaught; when she scowled a mutinous heaviness clouded down on her. It was a danger-signal (now to be read) when she chose to imitate impassivity.
    She today wore an orange canvas Mediterranean shirt, closely knotted up at the neck with a string of false pearls. Rolled-up sleeves bared her strong forearms, which slendered down when  they came to the wrists and hands.
    Reflecting, she stubbed out the cigarette. ‘What a fuss we make! But so little happens.’
    Fred, with a touch of contempt, said: ‘What’s happening now?’
    ‘One would like to know.’
    His comment was to grasp the pitcher of custard and measure out dollops on to his plate of fruit. As Jane pushed the sugar bowl his way, he teasingly, with confidence, spent a glance on her—’What ha vtyou been up to, that I don’t know of?’ He no more cared than he knew: she was in his sight, she had been his own all the later, greater part of this morning. She removed the pitcher from between him and her, letting it round again to the receptive Maud, then smiled back: ‘Nothing that you’d call anything.’
    ‘Good enough, then,’ he said to his spoon and fork.
    ‘Falling in love with a love letter,’ said Antonia.
    Maud, even, found this worthy of note; she turned to examine her sister’s profile. Lilia ingested the statement slowly, thought, then began to express surprise. ‘To me it’s rather peculiar that in spite of her chances, all we hear about London, and that keeping on dancing yesterday night, Jane should have to stoop for romance to a musty trunk, belonging to who knows who? Myself I should have been sorry to, but times alter. Are there no men about who are good enough? — Maud, I thought I said no more custard!’
    ‘No, you forgot to.’
    ‘And after how many eggs, with your blood upset?’
    ‘—Oh don’t nag her; dose her, for heaven’s sake!’ burst out Fred, with a sudden twitch of the forehead. Maud, not in need of a partisan, drew herself away and became remote; the women at table stared. There ensued an astounded pause, in the course of which he flicked a glance at his wrist-watch—as for Jane, she never might have been there. He thrust his chair back and stood up: ‘If you’ll all excuse me, got to be off.’
    ‘Why, what’s the rush?’ inquired Antonia, while Lilia languidly pointed out: ‘You won’t be getting the men back under their hour.’
    ‘Want to look at the tractor.’
    ‘Heavens, trouble again?’
    ‘It seemed to be going all right this morning,’ Jane said in a low  and concerned tone, ‘at least, I thought so.’
    He flatly told her: ‘This morning isn’t this afternoon.’
    ‘How true that is,’ said Antonia, ‘and how often sad.’
    Lilia, lolling her eyes down at her folded arms, remarked from a distance: I cannot help whatever it is that has now upset