“You look ever so smart,” said Maria.
That was what Mrs. Oliver liked so much about Maria. If given the least excuse for saying so, she always approved and gave praise, “Going to make a speech at the luncheon, are you?” Maria asked.
“A speech!” Mrs. Oliver sounded horrified. “No, of course not. You know I never make speeches.” “Well, I thought they always did at these here literary luncheons. That’s what you’re going to, isn’t it? Famous writers of nineteen seventy-three–or wherever year it is we’ve got to now.” “I don’t need to make a speech,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Several other people who like doing it will be making speeches, and they are much better at it than I would be.” “I’m sure you’d make a lovely speech if you put your mind to it,” said Maria, adjusting herself to the role of a tempter.
“No, I shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know what I can do and I know what I can’t. I can’t make speeches. I get all worried and nervy and I should probably stammer or say the same thing twice. I should not only feel silly, I should probabiy look silly. Now it’s all right with words. You can write words down or speak them into a machine or dictate them. I can do things with words so long as I know it’s not a speech I’m making.” “Oh, well. I hope everything’ll go all right. But I’m sure it will. Quite a grand luncheon, isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver in a deeply depressed voice. “Quite a grand luncheon.” And why, she thought, but did not say, why on earth am I going to it? She searched her mind for a bit because she always really liked knowing what she was doing instead of doing it first and wondering why she had done it afterwards.
“I suppose,” she said, again to herself and not to Maria, who had had to return rather hurriedly to the kitchen, summoned by a smell of overflowing jam which she happened to have on the stove, “I wanted to see what it felt like. I’m always being asked to literary lunches or something like that and I never go.” Mrs. Oliver arrived at the last course of the grand luncheon with a sigh of satisfaction as she toyed with the remains of the meringue on her plate. She was particularly fond of meringues and it was a delicious last course in a very delicious luncheon. Nevertheless, when one reached middle age, one had to be careful with meringues. One’s teeth! They looked all right, they had the great advantage that they could not ache, they were white and quite agreeable-looking–just like the real thing. But it was true enough that they were not real teeth. And teeth that were not real teeth–or so Mrs. Oliver believed–were not really of high-class material. Dogs, she had always understood, had teeth of real ivory, but human beings had teeth merely of bone. Or, she supposed, if they were false teeth, of plastic. Anyway, the point was that you mustn’t get involved in some rather shame-making appearance, which false teeth might lead you into. Lettuce was a difficulty, and salted almonds, and such things as chocolates with hard centers, clinging caramels and the delicious stickiness and adherence of meringues. With a sigh of satisfaction, she dealt with the final mouthful. It had been a good lunch, a very good lunch.
Mrs. Oliver was fond of her creature comforts. She had enjoyed the luncheon very much. She had enjoyed the company, too. The luncheon, which had been given to celebrated female writers, had fortunately not been confined to female writers only. There had been other writers, and critics, and those who read books as well as those who wrote them. Mrs. Oliver had sat between two very charming members of the male sex.
Edwin Aubyn, whose poetry she always enjoyed, an extremely entertaining person who had had various entertaining experiences in his tours abroad, and various literary and personal adventures. Also he was interested in restaurants and food and they had talked very happily about food, and left the subject of literature aside.
Sir Wesley Kent, on her other side, had also been an agreeable lunch companion. He had said very nice things about her books, and had had the tact to say things that did not make her feel embarrassed, which so many people could do almost without trying. He had mentioned one or two reasons why he had liked one or other of her books, and they had been the right reasons, and therefore Mrs. Oliver had thought favorably of him for that reason. Praise from men, Mrs. Oliver thought to herself, is always acceptable. It was women who gushed. Some of the things that women wrote to her! Really!