The inn of the Pythian Apollo winked its lights.
Moving about the bare boards of her room, Miss O’Brookomore made her box. Now bending, now rising, now falling to her knees, it appeared from the road below as though she were imploring for forgiveness.
‘For I am the old King’s daughter,
The youngest, sir, said she!
The King he is my father,
And my name is Marjorie …
Oh, my name is Marjorie, she said,
My father he is the King,
I am the youngest child he had,
And what will to-morrow bring?
What will to-morrow bring, she said,
Oh, what will to-morrow bring?
The King he is my father,
And what will to-morrow bring?’
‘… Gerald, she always sings as she packs! Just making it up as she goes—’
‘Why is she in such a hurry to be off?’
‘I don’t know. To-day she’s been all veins and moods, whims and foibles.’
‘Induce her to remain.’
‘If only she would … We haven’t yet been up to the Cave of the Nymphs!’
‘Ecco!’
‘It’s annoying to have to miss it.’
‘One night I sat upon the stairs
And heard him call my name!
I crept into the darkness
And covered my head for shame.
I covered my head for shame, she said,
Oh, I covered my head for shame!
The King he is my father,
And I covered my head for shame.’
‘Sometimes when she starts to sing she’ll keep it up for hours. It depends on what she’s doing!’
‘My sister Yoland she is dead,
And Ygrind is no more …
They went away to Ireland,
And nobody knows where they are!
Nobody knows where they are at all,
No one seems able to say—’
‘Will you come for a little stroll?’
‘Where ever to?’
‘Anywhere.’
She raised her eyes towards Parnassos, whose cold white heights glimmered amid the stars.
‘Oh, it gets grimmish!’
‘You shouldn’t be afraid.’
‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘would it be a Pension?’
‘A Pension?’
‘Those apartments of your mother’s.’
‘What does it matter now?’
‘Oh! … Perhaps I ought to aid poor Gerald!’
‘Aiding harms the hands.’
‘Mine are spoilt already.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Mum pretends my hands are large because Time hangs heavy upon them.’
‘Time in the country, they say, is apt to drag.’
‘Not if there’s a farm. Who could be bored by watching the manners of some old surly bull, or a dog on the scent of things, or a dove paying visits?’
‘Very likely!’
‘You’re blasé.’
‘Nothing of the sort.’
‘Poor little Geraldine, her weariness exceeds most things. She says the world’s an “8”.’
‘That’s better than an “o”.’
‘The repetition palls.’
‘There is always a nuance.’
‘It’s better to be an Indifferentist, she says. Not to care! But if anything ever goes wrong … It’s impossible not to smile at her philosophy.’
‘You must be her comfort.’
‘I don’t know what she’d do without me. Because the maid’s a perfect fool. When we arrive anywhere usually it’s I who improve the terms … Gerald hates to bargain. She seems to think it sordid. So I do it for her. Oh, it’s such fun! … Is it to be a back room or a front room, with a double bed or a single bed, or would the lady disdain a back bedroom without any balcony? Then Gerald asserts herself. “The lady requires a balcony with an unobstructed horizon” – and if there isn’t such a thing, then we try elsewhere.’
He stooped a little.
‘It’s the case of a courier,’ he said.
‘I think we ought to turn.’
‘We will,’ he answered, ‘when the road bends. Remember, the world’s an “8”!’