Mrs. Gulliver. Was that it? But she didn’t remember a Mrs.
Gulliver. She advanced on slightly shaky knees, still peering forward.
“I don’t expect you’ll remember me, it’s so many years since we met.” Like many elderly people/Mrs. Carstairs could remember voices better than she did faces.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “it’s–dear me, it’s Ariadne! My dear, how very nice to see you.” Greetings passed.
“I just happened to be in this part of the world,” explained Mrs. Oliver. “I had to come down to see someone not far from here. And then I remembered that looking in my address book last night I had seen that this was quite near where you had your apartment. Delightful, isn’t it?” she added, looking round.
“Not too bad,” said Mrs. Carstairs. “Not quite all it’s written up to be, you know. But it has many advantages. One brings one’s own furniture and things like that, and there is a central restaurant where you can have a meal, or you can have your own things, of course. Oh, yes, it’s very good, really. The grounds are charming and well-kept-up. But sit down, Ariadne; do sit down. You look very well. I saw you were at a literary lunch the other day, in the paper. How odd it is that one just sees something in the paper and almost the next day one meets the person. Quite extraordinary.” “I know,” said Mrs. Oliver, taking the chair that was offered her. “Things do go like that, don’t they?” “You are still living in London?” Mrs. Oliver said yes, she was still living in London. She then entered into what she thought of in her own mind, with vague memories of going to dancing class as a child, the first figure of the Lancers. Advance, retreat, hands out, turn round twice, whirl round, and so on.
She inquired after Mrs. Carstairs’s daughter and about the two grandchildren, and she asked about the other daughter, what she was doing. She appeared to be doing it in New Zealand. Mrs. Carstairs did not seem to be quite sure what it was. Some kind of social research. Mrs. Carstairs pressed an electric bell that rested on the arm of her chair, and ordered Emma to bring tea. Mrs. Oliver begged her not to bother.
Julia Carstairs said: “Of course Ariadne has got to have tea.” The two ladies leaned back. The second and third figures of the Lancers. Old friends. Other people’s children. The death of friends.
“It must be years since I saw you last,” said Mrs. Carstairs.
“I think it was at the Llewellyns’ wedding,” said Mrs.
Oliver.
“Yes, that must have been about it. How terrible Moira looked as a bridesmaid. That dreadfully unbecoming shade of apricot they wore.” “I know. It didn’t suit them.” “I don’t think weddings are nearly as pretty as they used to be in our day. Some of them seem to wear such very peculiar clothes. The other day one of my friends went to a wedding and she said the bridegroom was dressed in some sort of quilted white satin and ruffles at his neck. Made of Valenciennes lace, I believe. Most peculiar. And the girl was wearing a very peculiar trouser suit. Also white, but it was stamped with green shamrocks all over.
“Well, my dear Ariadne, can you imagine it. Really, extraordinary. In church, too. If I’d been a clergyman, I’d have refused to marry them.” Tea came. Talk continued.
“I saw my goddaughter, Celia Ravenscroft, the other day,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Do you remember the Ravenscrofts ? Of course, it’s a great many years ago.” “The Ravenscrofts? Now wait a minute. That was that very sad tragedy, wasn’t it? A double suicide, didn’t they think it was? Near their house at Overcliffe.” “You’ve got such a wonderful memory, Julia,” said Mrs.
Oliver.
“Always had. Though I have difficulties with names sometimes. Yes, it was very tragic, wasn’t it?” “Very tragic indeed.” “One of my cousins knew them very well in India, Roddy Foster, you know. General Ravenscroft had had a most distinguished career. Of course he was a bit deaf by the time he retired. He didn’t always hear what one said very well.” “Do you remember them quite well?” “Oh, yes. One doesn’t really forget people, does one? I mean, they lived at Overcliffe for quite five or six years.” “I’ve forgotten her Christian name now,” said Mrs. Oliver.