Faster! Faster! by E. M. Delafield Read Free Book Online Page A

mother had said so, and had given her a very pretty frock at Christmas—pale primrose, with tiny orange flowers embroidered all over it. Not a real evening dress, but just right. Taffy ought to have worn it to-night. She had, in fact, meant to wear it—and at the last minute had pulled out the ancient apple-green instead.
    She had wondered if Sylvia would say anything—but Sylvia had apparently been thinking of her own appearance rather than of Taffy’s.
    On her way downstairs Taffy rapidly evolved the running commentary that so often accompanied her through her days.
    â€œA tall girl of nearly seventeen was hastening down the stairs. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and it was evident that no thoughts of self troubled her. Yet the hastily donned, shabby frock,faded to a soft pastel shade, served only to show off her slender grace and the deep, dark colour of her eyes. They were eyes of almost emerald green, a colour seldom seen in an English face—gipsy eyes——”
    â€œIs that you, Sylvia?”
    It was her mother’s voice.
    â€œIt’s Taffy, Mother.”
    â€œCome in a minute, darling, and help me.”
    Taffy went into her mother’s bedroom. It was a large room, with two windows facing south. Between them stood a sort of combined writing-and dressing-table.
    It was now being used as a writing-table. Papers strewed it, and half a dozen envelopes, already addressed, lay on the floor.
    â€œIf you’d stamp those for me while I finish—I shan’t be a minute—it would save time. There are the stamps—under the looking-glass.”
    Her mother spoke without raising her head, still writing rapidly.
    â€œThey won’t go to-night.”
    â€œI know they won’t. But it gets them done.”
    â€œBut they won’t go to-morrow either. At least they’ll go, but they won’t arrive till Monday.”
    â€œI know. Be quick, please, darling. I’m going to be late for dinner.”
    Oh no, you’re not, Taffy silently apostrophized her parent as she picked up the stamps and began to stick them on.
    Mother wouldn’t be late. She’d get her letters finished, and herself dressed with quite incredible speed, and come downstairs at the last possibleminute looking beautifully finished, and with that air of poise that maturity gave to some people—the brilliant, vital ones, like Mother.
    â€œThere! That’s done, thank Heaven. Why have you put on that frock, Taffy dear, instead of the yellow one?”
    How like her! Apparently she’d never once raised her eyes, and yet she knew all the time what one had on and exactly what one looked like. Did she perhaps do it to show how clever she was? Taffy was so disgusted with herself for these thoughts—that another part of herself insisted were unjust and unkind—that her anger sounded in her voice as she answered.
    â€œIsn’t it all right?”
    â€œThe yellow one would really be better, wouldn’t it? This one seems to have shrunk—or else you’ve grown a great deal.”
    That was meant to sound as though it was quite a new idea that the green had shrunk. To gloss over the fact that Mother had pointed it out before, and one had deliberately ignored it.
    â€œHonestly, Taffy, I think you’d look nicer in the other.”
    â€œThere isn’t time to change now.”
    â€œYes there is. Five minutes.”
    â€œHave I got to?”
    There was a second’s pause. Then her mother said, in the carefully neutral tone that she sometimes employed towards her children:
    â€œNo. Of course not. It’s your decision, not mine. Do exactly what you like. I think myself the green is a mistake—it’s obviously too small foryou, and it’s not your colour. But it’s for you to decide, naturally.”
    â€œThen I think I’ll keep it on,” said Taffy defiantly.
    â€œVery well. Put the letters in the box as you go