Francie Again (12 page)

“Here it is,” he said at last, gratification in his voice, “and you will be interested, Francesca. I hoped this was what they were showing this season.”

Francie was delighted, for the little room was given over entirely to textiles of various sorts, from rare brocades to brilliantly printed coarse cotton. It was the kind of thing that always caught her eye.

“Oh, do wait just a minute, Maria,” she begged. “I've just got to take notes on some of these.”

The da Souzas paused and amiably watched as she dug a small sketch-block and pencil from her handbag, and began to copy down one of the patterns. They were used to her enthusiasm. All Portugal is accustomed to eager people drawing or painting, in the most unlikely places, and Francie had long since lost any self-consciousness she might have possessed about sketching wherever she felt the urge.

For a while the da Souza party had the room to themselves. Ruy, growing bored, strolled to the door and then outside, where he kicked his heels and watched the crowd of visitors. A couple of young men brushed past him on their way in; their clothes and general appearance attracted his eye for a moment, because he was puzzled. Were they English or American? One could not be sure; one only knew that they were not Latin.

Indoors, the blond man leaned over to take a second look at an embroidered shirt on display under glass. He said to the dark man, “Ravishing.”

The English word, and the intonation, made Maria, like her brother, prick up her ears. Like him she was puzzled to say which the speaker was, English or American? She resolved to ask Francesca. But Francesca was too much wrapped up in her work to have heard at all, so Maria remained silent.

The two men moved with a sort of delicate assurance around the room, glancing carelessly at some things and with careful attention at others. Then the dark one spoke, and his voice settled matters for the interested Maria. He was certainly American.

“Pretty routine on the whole,” he said.

“Routine?” The fair man sounded disapproving. “You're spoiled, that's the trouble with you. A week ago you'd have gone crazy about it.”

The dark man shrugged. “We've seen so much of it. But it's still good for a page, I suppose,” he said discontentedly. His tour had brought him close to Francie, and now he noticed her for the first time. As his shadow fell across the sketch-block, she moved and glared at him, disturbed. Ignoring her glance, he drew up to her shoulder and took a long, leisurely look at her work.

“Oh, I say,” he called over his shoulder at his companion, “this isn't bad! Come and look.”

Francie, hushed by astonishment, merely stood there meekly, while both men examined her drawing and looked at the print from which she had taken it, evidently comparing them.

“Interesting,” said the blond man at last, in the tone of one making a concession. “She's done a really interesting modification there. I wonder if she's a professional? Have they professionals here, do you think?”

“Oh, I don't think she's a professional,” said the dark man disparagingly. “I wouldn't quite call her a professional.”

They inspected Francie as if she were a wax figure. Maria had gasped, but Francie was too staggered to do even that.

“You might ask,” said the dark man at last. “Try her in French, Jim.”

Francie found her tongue at last. “Please don't try me in French,” she said. “I couldn't bear it.”

The pause that followed seemed endless. Then the dark man laughed and broke the spell. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said severely to his companion. “How many times do I have to tell you that nobody ever turns out to be a native?” He said to Francie and Maria, “I'm terribly sorry. Really I am. One tends to assume that everyone in Portugal is Portuguese; the thing is we're so used to Spain where people honestly and truly
are
Spanish—”

“And can't speak a word of English,” added the other man eagerly. “We get into careless habits, that's the truth of the matter. I suppose you're all dyed-in-the-wool Americans. Anyway, we are. My name's Jimmy Bryan, and this is Will Adams, and we're making what might be called an ill-will tour of the Southern countries. Now what about you?”

He smiled disarmingly at Francie.

“You're wrong again, or two-thirds wrong,” she said. “My friends Miss and Mr. da Souza aren't dyed-in-the-wool, or anything like it. But I'm sure they will forgive you.”

Ruy had drifted back into the room, and was listening in surprise. Now he and Maria hastened to agree as politely as possible. Francie observed that they looked a little stunned, as well they might, by the rapidity with which the acquaintance was developing, but she was sure she could make it all right as soon as she had a chance to explain more about free-and-easy ways among Americans abroad. For herself, she was excited and thrilled, because she had recognized Adams' name. He was a designer whose word was becoming law—a new law—in the fashion world, a man who traveled around seeking out, among other things, new textile weaves and patterns for the upholsterers and dressmakers of America and England. He and Bryan asked eager questions about Portugal, about which they seemed to assume Francie was an expert, an attitude which embarrassed but flattered her. They had just arrived, they explained; they were without cut-and-dried plans as to how they were to proceed with their exploratory work. Bryan was the technical man of the party, who took photographs and checked up on materials, manufacture and so on, whereas Adams had the original inspirations.

“We're supposed to be spending our time in Spain, actually,” explained Adams. “This is just a side trip. No doubt you've heard about the great thing in Spain? Oh, everybody's there, simply everybody; people are going to Spain now for their clothes and Paris is tearing its hair.”

“That is surely an exaggeration?” asked Maria timidly.

Jimmy laughed. “Of course it is. Will always exaggerates,” he said, “but the fact is, Spain
is
by way of becoming a center of the trade just now, and so we've been there, in residence, for some months. This trip was a sudden notion. I suppose you've come out from the States direct?” he asked Francie.

No, she said, as a matter of fact, she wasn't in what he called “the trade” at all.

“But you will be,” said Adams confidently. He gestured toward the sketch-block. “You're bound to be. You
look
the part, too. It's obvious.”

Francie was not so sure if she liked that or not. She was not a mere textile designer, she told herself; she was a painter, an artist. However, it was nice to be treated with respect by such a famous man.

The five of them repaired to a little coffee house nearby and spent a pleasant hour with Ruy and Maria giving the Americans advice and suggestions. When they all parted, it was in a blaze of good will, address-swapping and making vague appointments for the future.

“That's what I like about America,” said Maria during the ride back to Estoril, “the informality!” Looking wistful, she relapsed into her own thoughts, coming out only to say, “We had better not speak of the manner of our meeting to Papa, Ruy. That is, if these young men do call on us, as they said they would.”

“Naturally not,” said Ruy in lofty tones.

Francie listened in amusement only slightly tinged by impatience. How hemmed in everyone was in Portugal! “I may lose my patience sometimes with Aunt Lolly,” she reflected, “but at least I can always tell her everything like this, and she laughs when things are funny.” It made her more contented with her lot—for the moment.

Those two men had really been impressed by her interpretation of the design at the Feira Popular. It was not what she wanted to make her name at, of course, but any appreciation was pleasant. “Let's face it,” she thought, “I need it, after the cold-shoulder treatment I've been getting from Fontoura at the studio lately.”

“That is the way I like to see you,” said Ruy, suddenly breaking into her thoughts.

“Why? How?”

“You look happy,” said Ruy. “Stirred up and happy.”

“Smiling like a kitten,” added Maria.

Francie smiled more broadly.

“Aunt Lolly, I was thinking—” Francie began impulsively, and then stopped short.

“Yes, dear?”

“Never mind. For a minute I forgot the new Economy Drive, and it was a silly idea anyway.”

Mrs. Barclay looked over the edge of the Paris
Herald Tribune
thoughtfully. “It might not be so silly. Tell me.”

“Well,” said Francie, “it was an old-fashioned thought at best. I was just going over in my mind the people I owe a little attention to, and it seemed to me some kind of party might have cleared up the whole picture. You know, Mark, who's been taking me around, especially to the Club. And Daphne and all the crowd. And I'd like to do something about Art School and the da Souzas, of course, and those American designers I told you about might like the chance to meet some people.”

“All at one party?” asked Mrs. Barclay in slight surprise. “But my dear, they'll never mix.”

“They won't have a chance, since I'm not giving it, but I've often thought we may be making a mistake anyway, Aunt Lolly, keeping worlds separate the way we do in your circles,” said Francie earnestly. She leaned forward to emphasize her point. “If everyone always says, ‘Oh, they won't mix,' and never does anything to make them mix, why, of course they don't mix! See?”

Mrs. Barclay smiled. “I see that you believe it,” she said, “and that's enough for an experiment. Shall we do it?”

The excitement died out of Francie's face. “But of course we can't,” she said. “With things the way they are for Pop, I can't afford it.”

“I think you can,” said Mrs. Barclay, “if you're careful. Why not ask Phyllis if you can't use her house? I'm sure she'll be quite willing, and then you won't be running up a bill here. As for refreshments—”

“Oh, Aunt Lolly, if only I can use Phyllis' house! And refreshments are only coffee or punch or something and little cakes. Of course I can do it. Of course I can. You're a genius.”

She ran to the telephone.

CHAPTER 12

For a time it looked as if Mrs. Barclay's misgivings would turn out to be justified. Francie discovered it was not at all easy to plan one of the mixed-parties she approved of. It seemed that she might offend people. To be sure, the British were not touchy; instead, they were amused. Phyllis said she thought it would be “a riot,” and Mark puffed at his pipe and grinned as he thought of the possible repercussions.

“It won't hurt to stir them up a bit,” he admitted.

But the Portuguese, especially Maria da Souza, were taken aback when Francie blithely talked of her plans. Said Maria, “Well, it may be all right, Francesca, but my mother, for instance, will not like the idea of meeting so many people she does not already know. I am sure she will not like it.”

“But why?” asked Francie. “She needn't see them again, after all. I'm being awfully careful to do it formally, with invitations way ahead and everything. She can come, and go, and forget all about it if she's so displeased with the way it turns out.”

“It is bound to be necessary to see some of them again, perhaps. You don't
live
in Lisbon, you don't know the difficulties.” Maria looked worried. “I myself want very much to come to your party, you see. If Maman sends her regrets, then I am sure she will keep me home as well.”

Francie hesitated. It was Ruy who spoke up and settled the question. “She will come, Maria,” he said. “I will make a special effort to persuade her, and as for Papa, it does not arise; he will be in Oporto.”

“Oh, if Papa is away—” Maria's face cleared. Obviously Papa had been the real trouble.

“Do you think I dare invite Fontoura, Ruy?” Francie spoke hesitantly. The idea had been buzzing in her mind for several days, but she had been too shy to ask. “I really do want to invite everybody at the studio,” she added, “and as it's his studio, it seems so rude not to include him. Or do you think it would be presumptuous?”

“My dear Francesca, he's not so important as all that!” Ruy laughed. “Only a few of us think him very great, you know. He has no pride, no swelled head, and there is no reason he should have.”

“Then you think he might come?”

Ruy said, “I could not say. He's not very social, especially when he's working hard. But he might enjoy it. He might possibly come and it can do no harm to invite him, at least.”

Ruy was throwing himself into the preparations with genuine gusto, Francie was amused to observe.

“I'm interested for a special reason,” she confessed. “I'm going to ask those two American designers we met at the Feira, and I wanted them to see Fontoura. They'd be so glad to meet him.”

Ruy's face changed expression. He looked impassive, and Francie knew he was displeased. “But really,” she said to herself, “I can't always be looking out for Ruy's complexes. He's either jealous, or thinking I have been forward. Or both. I can't help it.”

Without compunction, then, she telephoned Adams and Bryan, and got Jimmy on the phone. “It's angelic of you,” he said promptly. “Of course we'll come. As a matter of fact, Chère Mystérieuse—do you like that name? I made it up this minute—I intended to suggest that we pay a call on you this afternoon when we come out to Estoril for a swim. Will you be home, you and your aunt?”

They did drop in, glamorous and attention-getting in their brilliant sports shirts. They seemed to like Mrs. Barclay, and she was completely captivated by them, though Francie, who was inclined to be more critical, thought their manners rather casual for a Portuguese hotel. Will sauntered about as if he owned not only the building but the world it stood in. He put on spectacles when he came across a picture that interested him, then disdained the picture and stood on the veranda overlooking the sea, as if he were thinking of remodeling the Estoril landscape.