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

Charming wedding, Rosemary H. looks lovely, bridesmaids highly picturesque. One of them has bright red hair, and am completely paralysed by devastating enquiry from Mary's husband, who hisses at me through his teeth: Is that the colour yours was when you dyed it?

Crowds of people at the reception. Know most of them, but am startled by strange lady in pink, wearing eye-glasses, who says that I don't remember her—which is only too true—but that she has played tennis at my house. How, she says, are those sweet twins? Find myself telling her that they are very well indeed, before I know where I am. Can only trust never to set eyes on her again.

Exchange talk with Mrs. Somers, recent arrival to the neighbourhood, who apologises profusely for never having returned my call. Am in doubt whether to say that I haven't noticed the omission, or that I hope she will repair it as quickly as possible. Either sounds uncivil.

Speak to old Lady Dufford, who reminds me that the last time we met was at the Jones wedding. That , she says, came to grief within a year. She also asks if I have heard about the Greens, who have separated, and poor Winifred R., who has had to go back to her parents because He drinks. Am not surprised when she concludes with observation that it is rather heartrending to see the two young things setting out together.

Large car belonging to bridegroom draws up at hall-door, and old Lady D. further wags her head at me and says Ah, in our day it would have been a carriage and pair—to which I offer no assent, thinking it very unnecessary reminder of the flight of Time—and in any event, am Lady D.'s junior by a good many years.

Melancholy engendered by the whole of this conversation is lightened by glass of champagne. I ask Robert, sentimentally, if this makes him think of our wedding. He looks surprised and says No, not particularly, why should it? As I cannot at the moment think of any particular reply to this, the question drops.

Departure of the bridal couple is followed by general exodus, and I take the Kellways home to tea.

Remove shoes with great thankfulness.

March 3rd. —Vicky, after Halma, enquires abruptly whether, if she died, I should cry? I reply in the affirmative. But, she says, should I cry really hard . Should I roar and scream? Decline to commit myself to any such extravagant demonstrations, at which Vicky displays a tendency to hurt astonishment. I speak to Mademoiselle and say that I hope she will discourage anything in Vicky that seems to verge upon the morbid. Mademoiselle requires a translation of the last word, and, after some consideration, I suggest dénaturé, at which she screams dramatically and crosses herself, and assures me that if I knew what I was saying, I should "en reculer d'effroi".

We decide to abandon the subject.

Our Vicar's wife calls for me at seven o'clock, and we go to a neighbouring Women's Institute at which I have, rather rashly, promised to speak. On the way there, our Vicar's wife tells me that the secretary of the Institute is liable to have a heart attack at any minute and must on no account exert herself, or be allowed to get over-excited. Even a violent fit of laughing, she adds impressively, might carry her off in a moment.

Hastily revise my speech, and remove from it two funny stories. After this it is a shock to find that the programme for the evening includes dancing and a game of General Post. I ask our Vicar's wife what would happen if the secretary did get a heart attack, and she replies mysteriously, Oh, she always carries Drops in her handbag. The thing to do is to keep an eye on her handbag. This I do nervously throughout the evening, but fortunately no crisis supervenes.

I speak, am thanked, and asked if I will judge a Darning Competition. This I do, in spite of inward misgivings that few people are less qualified to give any opinion about darning than I am. I am thanked again and given tea and a doughnut. We all play General Post and get very heated. Signal success of the evening when two stout and elderly members collide in the middle of the room, and both fall heavily to the floor together. This, if anything, will surely bring on a heart attack, and am prepared to make a rush at the handbag, but nothing happens. We all sing the National Anthem, and our Vicar's wife says she does hope the lights of her two-seater are in order, and drives me home. We are relieved, and surprised, to find that the lights, all except the rear one, are in order, although rather faint.

I beg our Vicar's wife to come in; she says, No, No, it is far too late, really, and comes. Robert and Helen Wills both asleep in the drawing-room. Our Vicar's wife says she must not stay a moment, and we talk about Countrywomen, Stanley Baldwin, Hotels at Madeira (where none of us have ever been), and other unrelated topics. Ethel brings in cocoa, but can tell from the way she puts down the tray that she thinks it an unreasonable requirement, and will quite likely give notice to-morrow.

At eleven our Vicar's wife says that she does hope the lights of the two-seater are still in order, and gets as far as the hall-door. There we talk about forthcoming village concert, parrot-disease, and the Bishop of the diocese.

Her car refuses to start, and Robert and I push it down the drive. After a good deal of jerking and grinding, engine starts, the hand of our Vicar's wife waves at us through the hole in the talc, and car disappears down the lane.

Robert inhospitably says, let us put out the lights and fasten up the hall-door and go up to bed immediately, in case she comes back for anything. We do so, only delayed by Helen Wills, whom Robert tries vainly to expel into the night. She retires under the piano, behind the bookcase, and finally disappears altogether.

March 4th. —Ethel, as I anticipated, gives notice. Cook says this is so unsettling, she thinks she had better go too. Despair invades me. Write five letters to Registry Offices.

March 7th. —No hope.

March 8th. —Cook relents, so far as to say that she will stay until I am suited. Feel inclined to answer that, in, that case, she had better make up her mind to a lifetime spent together—but naturally refrain. Spend exhausting day in Plymouth chasing mythical house-parlourmaids. Meet Lady B., who says the servant difficulty, in reality, is non-existent. She has No trouble. It is a question of knowing how to treat them. Firmness, she says, but at the same time one must be human. Am I human? she asks. Do I understand that they want occasional diversion, just as I do myself? I lose my head and reply No, that it is my custom to keep my servants chained up in the cellar when their work is done. This flight of satire rather spoilt by Lady B. laughing heartily, and saying that I am always so amusing. Well, she adds, we shall no doubt see one another at lunch-time at the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, where alone it is possible to get a decent meal. I reply with ready cordiality that no doubt we shall, and go and partake of my usual lunch of baked beans and a glass of water in small and obscure café.

Unavoidable Query, of painfully searching character, here presents itself: If Lady B. had invited me as her guest to lunch at the D. of C. Hotel, should I have accepted? Am conscious of being heartily tired of baked beans and water, which in any case do not really serve to support one through long day of shopping and servant-hunting. Moreover, am always ready to See Life, in hotels or anywhere else. On the other hand, am aware that self-respect would suffer severely through accepting five-shillings-worth of luncheon from Lady B. Ponder this problem of psychology in train on the way home, but reach no definite conclusion.