laughed. I suppose it sounded rather peculiar nowadays.
âIâm sure itâll be very nice,â she said. âYes. Iâll come. About half past four, will that be right?â
âIâll be waiting for you,â I said. âIâIâm glad.â I didnât say what I was glad about.
We had come to the last turn of the road where the houses began.
âGood-bye, then,â I said, âtill tomorrow. Andâdonât think again about what that old hag said. She just likes scaring people, I think. Sheâs not all there,â I added.
âDo you feel itâs a frightening place?â Ellie asked.
âGipsyâs Acre? No, I donât,â I said. I said it perhaps a trifle too decidedly, but I didnât think it was frightening. I thought as Iâd thought before, that it was a beautiful place, a beautiful setting for a beautiful houseâ¦.
Well, thatâs how my first meeting with Ellie went. I was in Market Chadwell the next day waiting in the Blue Dog and she came. We had tea together and we talked. We still didnât say muchabout ourselves, not about our lives, I mean. We talked mostly about things we thought, and felt; and then Ellie glanced at her wristwatch and said she must be going because her train to London left at 5:30â
âI thought you had a car down here,â I said.
She looked slightly embarrassed then and she said no, no, that hadnât been her car yesterday. She didnât say whose it had been. That shadow of embarrassment came over us again. I raised a finger to the waitress and paid the bill, then I said straight out to Ellie:
âAm Iâam I ever going to see you again?â
She didnât look at me, she looked down at the table. She said:
âI shall be in London for another fortnight.â
I said:
âWhere? How?â
We made a date to meet in Regentâs Park in three daysâ time. It was a fine day. We had some food in the open-air restaurant and we walked in Queen Maryâs Gardens and we sat there in two deck chairs and we talked. From that time on, we began to talk about ourselves. Iâd had some good schooling, I told her, but otherwise I didnât amount to much. I told her about the jobs Iâd had, some of them at any rate, and how Iâd never stuck to things and how Iâd been restless and wandered about trying this and that. Funnily enough, she was entranced to hear all this.
âSo different,â she said, âso wonderfully different.â
âDifferent from what?â
âFrom me.â
âYouâre a rich girl?â I said teasinglyââA poor little rich girl.â
âYes,â she said, âIâm a poor little rich girl.â
She talked then in a fragmentary way about her background ofriches, of stifling comfort, of boredom, of not really choosing your own friends, of never doing what you wanted. Sometimes looking at people who seemed to be enjoying themselves, when she wasnât. Her mother had died when she was a baby and her father had married again. And then, not many years after, he had died, she said. I gathered she didnât care much for her stepmother. Sheâd lived mostly in America but also travelling abroad a fair amount.
It seemed fantastic to me listening to her that any girl in this age and time could live this sheltered, confined existence. True, she went to parties and entertainments, but it might have been fifty years ago it seemed to me from the way she talked. There didnât seem to be any intimacy, any fun! Her life was as different from mine as chalk from cheese. In a way it was fascinating to hear about it but it sounded stultifying to me.
âYou havenât really got any friends of your own then?â I said, incredulously. âWhat about boyfriends?â
âTheyâre chosen for me,â she said rather bitterly. âTheyâre deadly dull.â
âItâs