Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/35

 The stout woman, swathed in broadtail, waddled in, and settled herself in a deep arm-chair. I've just come from the matinée. She spoke in a squeaky, ineffectual voice, which seemed oddly at variance with her vast exterior. The odour of Tabac Blond pervaded the atmosphere.

Laura handed her a cup of tea, into which she had dropped one lump of sugar and a slice of lemon.

Fata Morgana. . . Laura, you know I take cream and two lumps.

O, I'm sorry. Of course, you do. Was it a good play?

Horrible. Not in the least like life. A middle-aged woman makes love to a boy. I detest sex abnormalities. A ridiculous situation, I think.

Absurd! Campaspe commented.

Laura was silent.

And do you know, Gareth Johns's new novel is based on the same disgusting subject? . . . Vera inspected the tray of sweets. . . I think I'll have two of these amandines de Provence. Are they fattening? I don't want to get fat. . . A perfectly idiotic affair between a boy and a middle-aged woman living together in Paris. Stupid! What are we coming to?

Stupid, perhaps, Campaspe remarked, but not entirely untrue to life. It's his own story, or part of it.

You know him!