E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

This she does by sitting on bed and explaining to me that dark-red varnish doesn't really suit her nails. Coral, yes, rose-pink, yes. But not dark-red. Then why, I naturally enquire—with my head more or less in a suit-case—does she put it on? Why? Ella repeats in astonishment. Because she has to, of course. It's the only colour that anyone is wearing now, so naturally she has no alternative. But it's too bad, because the colour really doesn't suit her at all, and in fact she dislikes it.

I make sounds that I hope may pass as sympathetic—though cannot really feel that Ella has made out a very good case for herself as a victim of unkind Fate—and go on packing and—still more—unpacking.

Impossibility of fitting in present for Our Vicar's Wife, besides dressing-slippers and travelling-clock of my own, overcomes me altogether, and I call on Ella for help. This she reluctantly gives, but tells me at the same time that her dress wasn't meant for a strain of any kind, and may very likely split under the arms if she tries to lift anything.

This catastrophe is fortunately spared us, and boxes are at last closed and taken downstairs, hand-luggage remaining in mountainous-looking pile, surmounted by tower of books. Ella looks at these with distaste, and says that what I need is a Strap, and then immediately presents me with Anthony Adverse. Should feel much more grateful if she had only brought me a strap instead.

We go down to lunch in Persian Coffee Shop, and talk about Mrs. Tressider, to whom Ella sends rather vague messages, of which only one seems to me at all coherent—to the effect that she hopes The Boy is stronger than he was. I promise, to deliver it, and even go so far as to suggest that I should write and let Ella know what I think of The Boy next time I see him. She very sensibly replies that I really needn't trouble to do that, and I dismiss entire scheme forthwith. Discover after lunch that rain is pouring down in torrents, and facetiously remark that I may as well get used to it again, as I shall probably find the same state of affairs on reaching England. Ella makes chilly reply to the effect that the British climate always seems to her to be thoroughly maligned, especially by the English—which makes me feel that I have been unpatriotic. She then adds that she only hopes this doesn't, mean that the Berengaria is in for a rough crossing.

Go upstairs to collect my belongings in mood of the deepest dejection. Books still as unmanageable as ever, and I eventually take nine of them, and Ella two, and carry them downstairs.

Achieve the docks by car, Ella driving. She reiterates that I ought to have got a strap—especially when we find that long walk awaits us before we actually reach gangway of the Berengaria.

Hand-luggage proves too much for me altogether, and I twice drop various small articles, and complete avalanche of literature. Ella—who is comparatively lightly laden—walks on well ahead of me and has sufficient presence of mind not to look behind her—which is on the whole a relief to me.

Berengaria looks colossal, and thronged with people. Steward, who has been viewing my progress with—or without—the books, compassionately, detaches himself from the crowd and comes to my assistance. He will, he says, take me—and books—to my cabin.

Ella and I then follow him for miles and miles, and Ella says thoughtfully that I should be a long way from the deck if there was a fire.

Cabin is filled, in the most gratifying way, with flowers and telegrams. Also several parcels which undoubtedly contain more books. Steward leaves us, and Ella sits on the edge of the bunk and says that when she took her last trip to Europe her stateroom was exactly like a florist's shop. Even the stewardess said she'd never seen anything like it, in fifteen years' experience.

Then, I reply with spirit, she couldn't ever have seen a film star travelling. Film stars, to my certain knowledge, have to engage, one, if not two, extra cabins solely to accommodate flowers, fruit, literature and other gifts bestowed upon them. This remark not a success with Ella—never thought it would be—and she says very soon afterwards that perhaps I should like to unpack and get straight, and she had better leave me.

Escort her on deck—lose the way several times and thoughts again revert to probable unpleasant situation in the event of a fire—and we part.

Ella's last word to me is an assurance that she will be longing to hear of my safe arrival, and everyone always laughs at her because she gets such quantities of night letters and cables from abroad, but how can she help it, if she has so many friends? Mine to her is—naturally—an expression of gratitude for all her kindness. We exchange final reference to Mrs. Tressider, responsible for bringing us together—she is to be given Ella's love—The Boy should be outgrowing early delicacy by this time—and I lean over the side and watch Ella, elegant to the last in hitherto unknown grey squirrel coat, take her departure.

Look at fellow-travellers surrounding me, and wonder if I am going to like any of them—outlook not optimistic, and doubtless they feel the same about me. Suddenly perceive familiar figure—Mademoiselle is making her way towards me. She mutters Dieu! quelle canaille! —which I think is an unnecessarily strong way of expressing herself—and I remove myself and her to adjacent saloon, where we sit in armchairs and Mademoiselle presents me with a small chrysanthemum in a pot.

She is in very depressed frame of mind, sheds tears, and tells me that many a fine ship has been englouti par les vagues and that it breaks her heart to think of my two unhappy little children left without their mother. I beg Mademoiselle to take a more hopeful outlook, but at this she shows symptoms of being offended, so hastily add that I have often known similar misgivings myself—which is true. Ah, replies Mademoiselle lugubriously, les pressentiments, les pressentiments! and we are again plunged in gloom.

Suggest taking her to see my cabin, as affording possible distraction, and we accordingly proceed there, though not by any means without difficulty.

Mademoiselle, at sight of telegrams, again says Mon Dieu! and begs me to open them at once, in case of bad news. I do so, and am able to assure her that they contain only amiable wishes for a good journey from kind American friends. Mademoiselle—evidently in overwrought condition altogether—does not receive this as I had hoped, but breaks into floods of tears and says that she is suffering from mal du pays and la nostalgie.

Mistake this for neuralgia, and suggest aspirin, and this error fortunately restores Mademoiselle to comparative cheerfulness. Does not weep again until we exchange final and affectionate farewells on deck, just as gang-plank is about to be removed. Vite! shrieks Mademoiselle, dashing down it, and achieving the dock in great disarray.

I wave good-bye to her, and Berengaria moves off. Dramatic moment of bidding Farewell to America is then entirely ruined for me by unknown Englishwoman who asks me severely if that was a friend of mine?

Yes, it was.

Very well. It reminds her of an extraordinary occasion when her son was seeing her off from Southampton. He remained too long in the cabin—very devoted son, anxious to see that all was comfortable for his mother—and when he went up on deck, what do I think had happened?

Can naturally guess this without the slightest difficulty, but feel that it would spoil the story if I do, so only say What? in anxious tone of voice, as though I had no idea at all. The ship, says unknown Englishwoman impressively, had moved several yards away from the dock. And what do I suppose her son did then?