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‘I suppose you are our niece Elizabeth? We are so pleased to see you,’ she said, and kissed her.
Mr Lackersteen peered over his wife’s shoulder in the torchlight. He gave a half-whistle,
exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ and then seized Elizabeth and kissed her, more warmly than he
need have done, she thought. She had never seen either of them before.
After dinner, under the punkah in the drawing-room, Elizabeth and her aunt had a talk together. Mr
Lackersteen was strolling in the garden, ostensibly to smell the frangipani, actually to have a
surreptitious drink that one of the servants smuggled to him from the back of the house.
‘My dear, how really lovely you are! Let me look at you again.’ She took her by the shoulders. ‘I do
think that Eton crop suits you. Did you have it done in Paris?’
‘Yes. Everyone was getting Eton-cropped. It suits you if you’ve got a fairly small head.’
‘Lovely! And those tortoise-shell spectacles–such a becoming fashion! I’m told that all the–
er–demimondaines in South America have taken to wearing them. I’d no idea I had such a ravishing
beauty for a niece. How old did you say you were, dear?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Twenty-two! How delighted all the men will be when we take you to the Club tomorrow! They get
so lonely, poor things, never seeing a new face. And you were two whole years in Paris? I can’t think
what the men there can have been about to let you leave unmarried.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t meet many men, aunt. Only foreigners. We had to live so quietly. And I was
working,’ she added, thinking this rather a disgraceful admission.
‘Of course, of course,’ sighed Mrs Lackersteen. ‘One hears the same thing on every side. Lovely
girls having to work for their living. It is such a shame! I think it’s so terribly selfish, don’t you, dhe
way these men remain unmarried while there are so many poor girls looking for husbands?’ Elizabeth
not answering this, Mrs Lackersteen added with another sigh, ‘I’m sure if I were a young girl I’d
marry anybody, literally anybody!’
The two women’s eyes met. There was a great deal that Mrs Lackersteen wanted to say, but she had
no intention of doing more than hint at it obliquely. A great deal of her conversation was carried on by
hints; she generally contrived, however, to make her meaning reasonably clear. She said in a tenderly
impersonal tone, as though discussing a subject of general interest:
‘Of course, I must say this. There are cases when, if girls fail to get married it’s their own fault. It
happens even out here sometimes. Only a short time ago I remember a case–a girl came out and
stayed a whole year with her brother, and she had offers from all kinds of men–policemen, forest
officers, men in timber firms with quite good prospects. And she refused them all; she wanted to
marry into the ICS, I heard. Well, what do you expect? Of course her brother couldn’t go on keeping
her forever. And now I hear she’s at Home, poor thing, working as a kind of lady help, practically a
servant. And getting only fifteen shillings a week! Isn’t it dreadful to think of such things?’
‘Dreadful!’ Elizabedi echoed.
No more was said on this subject. In the morning, after she came back from Flory’s house,
Elizabeth was describing her adventure to her aunt and uncle. They were at breakfast, at the flowerladen
table, with the punkah flapping overhead and the tall stork-like Mohammedan butler in his
white suit and pagri standing behind Mrs Lackersteen’s chair, tray in hand.