The Lady of the Basement Flat | Page 9

see."
Bridget takes a deep interest in my correspondence, and always
introduces a letter with a note of warning or congratulation: "That
bothering creature is worrying at you again!"
"There's a laugh you'll be having over Master George's fun!"
"You paid that bill before. Don't be letting them come over you with
their tricks!"
It is, of course, reprehensible behaviour on the part of a maid,
presumptuous, familiar, interfering; but Bridget is Bridget, and I might
as soon command her not to use her tongue, as to stop taking an interest
in anything that concerns "Herself". As a matter of fact, I don't try.
Servility, and decorum, and a machine-like respect are to be hired for
cash at any registry office; but Bridget's red-hot devotion, her child-like,
unshakable conviction that everything that Miss Evelyn does and says,
or doesn't say and doesn't do, is absolutely right--ah, that is beyond
price! No poor forms and ceremony shall stand between Bridget and
me!
I lifted the letters, and had no difficulty in selecting the one which
would "give me joy". Strangely enough, it was written by one of the
newest of my friends, one whose very existence had been unknown to
me two years before.
We had met at a summer hotel where Kathie and I chanced to be
staying, and never shall I forget my first sight of Charmion Fane as she
trailed into the dining-room and seated herself at a small table opposite
our own. She was so tall and pale and shadowy in the floating grey
chiffon cloak that covered her white dress, she lay back in her chair
with such languor, and drooped her heavy eyelids with an air of such

superfine indifference to her fellow-men, that Kathie and I decided then
and there that she was succumbing to the effects of a dangerous
operation, and-- with care--might be expected to last six or eight weeks.
We held fast to this conclusion till the next morning, when we met our
invalid striding over the moors, clad in abbreviated tweeds, and the
manniest of hard felt hats. Kathie said that she was plain. I said, "Well,
not plain exactly, but queer!" At dinner the same night, we amended
the verdict, and voted her "rather nice". Twenty-four hours later she
represented our ideal of female charm, and we figuratively wept and
rent our garments because she exhibited no interest in our charming
selves. An inspection of the visitors' book proved that her name was
"Mrs Fane," but that was not particularly enlightening, especially as no
home address was given.
But on the third day, just as we were beginning to concoct dark
schemes by means of which we could force acquaintanceship, the "grey
lady" entered the lounge, marched unhesitatingly across to our corner,
stood staring down at us as we sat on the sofa, and said shortly:--
"This is ridiculous! We are wasting time! We three are the only really
interesting people in the hotel; we are dying to know each other--and
we know it! Come for a walk!" And lo! in another minute we were on
the high road, Kathie on one side, I on the other, gazing at her with
adoring eyes, while she said briskly:--
"My name is Charmion Fane. I am quite alone. No children. Thirty-two.
I don't live anywhere in particular. Just prowl round from one place to
another. If there are any other dull, necessary details that you want to
know, ask!--and get them over. Then we can talk!"
We laughed, and replied with similar biographical sketches on our own
account, and then we did talk--about books, and travels, and hobbies,
and mankind in general, and gradually, growing more and more
intimate (or rather conscious of our intimacy, for we were friends after
the first hour!) of our personal hopes, fears, difficulties, and mental
outlooks.

When we came in, Kathie and I faced each other in our bedroom,
almost incoherent with pleasure and excitement.
"Well! What an afternoon! My dear, isn't she--" Kathie waved her
hands to express a superlative beyond the power of words.
"She is!"
"The most fascinating, the most interesting, the most original--"
"And she likes us, too! As much as we like her. Isn't it glorious?"
"She hasn't spoken to another soul. How could we have called her plain!
Evelyn, did you notice that she never spoke of her husband? She wears
grey and violet, so he has probably been dead for some years, but she
never referred to him in the slightest possible way."
"Would it be likely, Kathie, in our very first talk?"
"Yes!" declared Kathie sturdily. "Not intentionally, perhaps, but with
ordinary people it would have slipped out. `We went to Italy. My
husband liked this or that.' She never advanced even as far as the `we'.
She must