She
was a completely stupid woman, her novel had been exceedingly vulgar, but
her good heart and a habit of speaking vaguely in capital letters secured
her attention.
When Clare and Peter arrived people were filling her drawing-rooms,
overflowing on to the stairs and pouring into the supper room. Some one,
very far away, was singing "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," a babel of voices
rose about Clare and Peter on every side, every one was flung against every
one; heat and scent, the crackle and rustle of clothes, the soft voices of
the men and sharp strident voices of the women gave one the sensation of
imminent suffocation; people with hot red faces, unable to move at all,
flung agonised glances at the door as though the entrance of one more
person must mean death and disaster.
There were, Peter soon discovered, three topics of conversation: one was
their hostess' novel and this was only discussed when Lady Luncon was
herself somewhere at hand--the second topic concerned the books of somebody
who had, most unjustly it appeared, been banned by the libraries for
impropriety, and here opinions were divided as to whether the author would
gain by the advertisement or lose by loss of library circulation. Thirdly,
there was a new young man who had written a novel about the love affairs of
a crocus and a violet--it was amazingly improper, full of poetry--"right
back," as somebody said "to Nature.
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