Читать книгу The Counterplot онлайн

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“Oh! but I think all Englishmen tiresome.”

Then the butler and parlour-maid appeared with tea; and a few minutes later Concha, the other daughter, strolled up, her arm round the waist of a small, elderly lady.

Concha was a very beautiful girl of twenty-two. She was tall, and built delicately on a generous scale; her hair was that variety of auburn which, when found among women of the Latin races, never fails to give a thrill of unexpectedness, and a whiff of romance—hinting at old old rapes by Normans and Danes. As one looked at her one realised what a beautiful creature the Doña must once have been.

The elderly lady was governess emerita of the Lanes. They had grown so attached to her that she had stayed on as “odd woman”—arranging the flowers, superintending the servants, going up to London at the sales to shop for the family. They called her “Jollypot,” because “jolly” was the adjective with which she qualified anything beautiful, kindly, picturesque, or quaint; “pot” was added as the essence of the æsthetic aspect of “jolliness,” typified in the activities of Arts and Crafts and Artificers’ Guilds—indeed she always, and never more than to-day, looked as if she had been dressed by one of these institutions; on her head was a hat of purple and green straw with a Paisley scarf twisted round the crown, round her shoulders was another scarf—handwoven, gray and purple—on her torso was an orange jumper into which were inserted squares of canvas wool-work done by a Belgian refugee with leanings to Cubism; and beads,—enormous, painted wooden ones. Once Harry Sinclair (the father of Anna and Jasper) had exploded a silence with the question, “Why is Jollypot like the Old Lady of Leeds? Because she’s ... er ... er ... INFESTED WITH BEADS!!!”