To Journey Together (22 page)

Very well."

"You enjoyed the time we went sightseeing in Salzburg, didn't you?"

"Immensely—of course."

"And it wasn't my fault that that confounded Rudi von Eiberg did all the sightseeing with you in Vienna," he added, unwisely displaying a very slight sense of grievance.

Elinor turned her head and looked coolly at him. None of her family would have recognized that look, in its composure and its self-possession.

"You are in a bad temper, aren't you?" she said pleasantly.

"I suppose I am," he agreed crossly. And at that point he leaned forward and kissed her.

ELINOR gasped slightly, wished that she could say something very cool and sophisticated and to the point, and finally produced nothing more striking than, "I never gave you permission to kiss me."

"Did Rudi von Eiberg always ask permission?" was the highly provocative retort.

"I don't know what you mean by 'always'," returned Elinor with spirit. "Rudi hardly ever kissed me, and never without a good reason. And, anyway, that has nothing to do with it. It's not very nice to speak in that cross, nagging way to anyone, and then kiss them as though a—a rather impudent sort of salute naturally makes up for everything."

Kenneth looked startled at this description of his conduct, and then faintly sulky.

"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "It wasn't meant to be impudent at all."

"Well, that was how it felt," Elinor declared severely. Then she suddenly remembered that the light touch of his lips on her cheek had felt rather nice, really, and because she was both impulsive and truthful, she added, "No, it didn't," and put up her hand experimentally against the cheek he had kissed.

He laughed at that, with immense relief, which made her laugh too, rather doubtfully. Then he took her hand—as nearly diffidently as was within his nature to do—and said, "I am really sorry if I annoyed you. I didn't mean to. I think the trouble was that I very much wanted to take you sightseeing in Rome, but I was still jealous about the way Rudi monopolized you in Vienna, and I didn't want my uncle to start pushing what one might call my family claims if you were going to find someone else to take you around here too."

"But who else should I find?" Elinor asked with simplicity.

"Oh, I don't know. An attractive girl like you can always find someone."

Elinor looked at him in surprise and thought that, suddenly though quite inexplicably, he looked like her brother Edward when his latest girl-friend had puzzled and disillusioned him, or—even more inexplicably—like young Henry when his experiments had gone wrong.

"Don't worry," she said, and she patted the hand which held hers with a sort of encouraging tenderness. "We just got each other wrong. Let's start again. Would you like to take me sightseeing when we both have some time? Because, if so, I'd love to come. I never enjoyed anything more than that morning in Salzburg together."

"Thank you, Elinor. Nothing would please me better," he replied gravely. And then his eyes twinkled irrepressibly, and he added, "Do we retrace our steps to the extent of letting me kiss you again—this time with all proper respect?"

She laughed and coloured a little.

"If you very much want to."

"I very much want to," Kenneth stated. And, without more ceremony, he put his arm round her, drew her against him, and kissed her firmly on her smooth, flushed cheek.

It was true that he did not do it with the light, unoffending charm of a Rudi. But it was extraordinarily nice for all that.

Then the Conneltons came out into the garden—fortunately just a few moments after they had drawn apart—and conversation became general and followed the now familiar pattern of satisfied comments on the hotel and plans for the evening.

"Now we are in Rome and should obviously do as the Romans do," Lady Connelton said with a laugh, "what do we do?"

"Go to the Opera," suggested her husband.

"If it is not too long and inaccessible," agreed Lady Connelton, whose meaning will be clear to all those who follow operatic form.

"I will find out what is on," Kenneth said obligingly, and went in to make enquires at the hotel desk.

He came back with the information that the

performance that night was Lucia di Lammermoor with Maria Callas in the name part, and that it would have been quite, quite impossible to secure tickets for the performance if the hall porter had not just happened to have four excellent seats with which he was willing to part—for a consideration, naturally.

This being, as Kenneth and the Conneltons well knew, the recognized method of attending almost anything worthwhile in Italy, the bargain was struck.

"A full dress occasion, I take it?" Lady Connelton said reflectively. "Somehow the late losers of the war are always so much smarter than the late victors."

"Let us keep our end up, by all means," agreed her husband, "even in victory."

From which Elinor gathered that here, at last, was the occasion on which she should wear the ivory lace evening dress which Anne had, so providentially, insisted on her including in her wardrobe.

Fortunately the lace dress had stood up well to all the travelling and packing and unpacking, so that when they gathered for dinner Elinor was looking fresh and cool and enchanting. Say what one will, there is something in the sheer "dressing up" for a festive occasion which imparts a certain charm and glamour to almost every personality.

It was almost the first time Elinor had ever worn full evening dress. Certainly it was the first time she had worn it with confidence and a natural, graceful enjoyment. And, as she came in, Lady Conneltonvery handsome in black and some good though unostentatious jewellery—said, "Dear me, child, you are quite a beauty in your way."

"Of course she is a beauty." Sir Daniel looked at his young secretary indulgently. "I don't doubt that we shall have von Eiberg chasing after us soon, in tribute to the fact."

To her surprise, Elinor caught herself smiling apologetically at Kenneth. Then she thought how nice and distinguished he looked in his evening clothes and was glad that he smiled back at her, even

if he did frown a little first at what Sir Daniel had said.

It was a perfectly delightful evening after that. The most "luxurious" evening, Elinor told herself afterwards, that she had ever spent. They dined leisurely and well, since the performance did not start until late, then they drove down to the theatre, past beautiful colonnaded buildings, through superbly planned streets and squares—with an occasional glimpse of some breathtaking fountain or superb frontage or even just a doorway, caught, as it were, and preserved as the wave of modern Rome had overtaken the Rome of the past.

The theatre itself was handsome, without being specially memorable. But the scene in the promenade and the auditorium was the most glittering and impressive Elinor had ever witnessed. Splendid dresses and jewels seemed the rule rather than the exception, and from their excellent seats in the stalls they could enjoy that now all-too-rare spectacle of what used to be called "a well-dressed house."

"It isn't always like this," Kenneth explained to her, seeing her almost awe-stricken surprise. "But tonight is definitely a gala night, and a gala night at the opera is not something to be lightly dismissed in Italy."

"Does the opera more or less follow the Walter Scott story?" Elinor enquired, glancing at her glossy and rather impressive programme.

"Less, rather than more, if I remember rightly," Kenneth assured her cheerfully. "And I expect the Italian idea of Scottish legend will have its moments of amusement. But the action is simple and easy to follow—and, by all accounts, we should have some wonderful singing from the soprano."

They did. Elinor, who was no expert, sensed instinctively that here was quality of a very high order and, without bothering herself about finer points—over which she was, in any case, humbly ignorant—she enjoyed herself enormously, and heartily joined in that wave of almost riotous enthusiasm which occasionally sweeps over an aud-

ience, carrying both sophisticated and simple along with it.

"Enjoying yourself?" enquired Kenneth, with a smile, in the interval.

"Oh, enormously!"

"As well as in Vienna?" he wanted to know.

"Why—why, yes. Though in an entirely different way," she conceded. Then she thought suddenly about Rudi and wondered whether his presence, if obtainable, would have added anything to her pleasure.

Perhaps, in an oblique way, that was what Kenneth had meant.

After the performance, late though it was, they walked part of the way home, just to enjoy the warm spring air and the subtle, intangible glamour of the Roman night. It was, Elinor thought, one of the loveliest experiences yet.

At one point, as they crossed a crowded road, Kenneth took her lightly by the arm, and, when they reached the other side, he did not immediately relinquish her. They strolled along together, two or three paces behind the Conneltons, and, many though the impressions were which were crowding upon Elinor in this magic city, she felt that the outstanding one was the sensation of those strong, friendly, supporting fingers on her arm.

The next day it was not possible to embark at once on a programme of pleasure. A good deal of work had accumulated, and fresh aspects of it presented themselves now that they were in a new place. Lady Connelton declared that it was a shame to stay in when the weather was so superb. But—there was no getting away from it—work had to come first for a while, and Elinor was exceedingly busy.

I don't really mind [she wrote to the family]. No one ever worked in happier surroundings. Both Sir Daniel and Kenneth are so kind and appreciative, and I know they will see to it that I have time to enjoy myself later. After the wonderful time in Vienna, I can hardly complain. I doubt

if any girl ever had a more wonderful trip than I have had.

Don't think that I am not still looking forward to every bit of it that is left, but sometimes I am quite violently homesick now. It seems that I have been away such a long time. (Well, I have, of course!) And I want so much to see you all and talk to you.

That goes for the home side of things, but when I think about the office, I wonder how on earth I am ever going to settle down again. Not that I expect to earn my living for the rest of my life in these fantastic circumstances, but—I feel so different from the rather mousey girl who used to type schedules for Mr. Prynne and say "yes" and "no" to Sally Pascoe, and listen enviously while the others all talked about their much more interesting affairs.

Does that sound rather horrid and "above my boots"? I really don't mean it that way. I'm just wondering how I am going to fit myself into my little niche once more. Well—we shall see when the time comes. At present there is still Rome to enjoy, and there has been no talk as yet about our even thinking of coming home.

Once she had put all this down on paper, Elinor studied it rather soberly and wondered if this were what Kenneth had meant when he declared she had developed greatly from the "tight little bud" stage. The last thing she wanted was to seem in any way discontented when she, inevitably, had to return to earth. But—it was not that. It was—she sighed rather perplexedly. And Lady Connelton, coming in at that moment, wanted to know if anything was wrong.

"Oh, no!" Elinor looked up and smiled immediately. "I don't know what could be wrong in the lovely life I'm living now. It was just—I was thinking about going back to the office."

"But you are not going back to the office yet, dear child," Lady Connelton pointed out with her

usual practical cheerfulness. "And things are never so bad as we expect them to be, in any case."

"I didn't mean it quite like that," Elinor explained, because one could explain things very easily to Lady Connelton. "I don't really mind going back to the office when the time comes. At least—not in a discontented and resentful way. But I can't quite see myself as I used to be."

"Well, you aren't as you used to be," Lady Connelton said very sensibly. "You probably never will be again. We all change as we grow up. You grew up suddenly. That's all."

"I hope the others won't mind," Elinor said, with a touch of characteristic humility

"Probably they won't notice much," Lady Connelton told her with amusement. "As you are a nice, tactful child, you will almost certainly keep most of it to yourself. But whereas before I suppose you kept silent about your own affairs because they were almost non-existent, and listened respectfully to what the others had to say, now you will still listen because you are kind and know that what nearly everyone wants is to talk a little bit about themselves. But, instead of feeling blank and mildly envious, you will have your own experiences to think about, and sometimes you'll talk a bit about them too, and people will just think what a much more interesting girl you have become."

"Oh, Lady Connelton, do you really think so? You're such a comforting person!" Elinor exclaimed.

"There is no situation, my dear, which kindness and common sense cannot reduce to manageable terms," Lady Connelton declared in her rather positive way. And, if this was a somewhat oversimplified view of life, who can say that Lady Connelton was not, broadly speaking, right?