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 Praise for Culturally Responsive Conversations

“Marina and Seth’s wisdom and stories helped me better understand what I’ve seen and
heard in classrooms around the world, and reflect on how I can be better with kids of every
background.”
—Mike Goldstein, Founder, Match Education, Boston

“Scholars have dissected cultural responsiveness, alerting educators of its importance, but
educators are still left with the question of ‘how do we actually do this in schools?’ The
authors extend current knowledge into practical, digestible nuggets of wisdom that concre-
tize and demystify cultural responsiveness for educators.”
—Josephine M. Kim, Senior Lecturer on Education at Harvard University

“In this engaging and highly readable primer on cross-­cultural communications for educa-
tors Marina Lee and Seth Leighton offer an original synthesis of knowledge based on schol-
arship and on practice with practical exercises that can help the reader become more
self-­aware and competent in navigating cross-­cultural exchanges. Their own lived experi-
ence, as a multicultural family and as global educators, uniquely qualifies them to speak
with authority and authenticity about the potential of true communication that bridges
cultures. This book will empower educators to realize the potential that lies in culturally
diverse classrooms and schools.”
—Fernando M. Reimers, Ford Foundation Professor of the Practice of
International Education, Harvard Graduate School of Education
Culturally Responsive
Conversations
 Culturally
Responsive
Conversations
Connecting with Your Diverse School
Community

Marina Minhwa Lee

Seth Leighton
Copyright © 2023 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey. Published simultaneously in Canada.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Names: Lee, Marina M. (Marina Minhwa), author. | Leighton, Seth, author.
Title: Culturally responsive conversations : connecting with your diverse
school community / Marina M Lee, Seth Leighton.
Description: Hoboken, New Jersey : Jossey-Bass, [2023] | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022059904 (print) | LCCN 2022059905 (ebook) | ISBN
9781119849155 (paperback) | ISBN 9781119849186 (adobe pdf ) | ISBN
9781119849179 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Multicultural education—United States. | Inclusive
education—United States.
Classification: LCC LC1099.3 .L454 2023 (print) | LCC LC1099.3 (ebook) |
DDC 370.1170973—dc23/eng/20230113
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022059904
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022059905

Cover Design: Wiley

Cover Image: © FoxysGraphics/Getty Images
Author Photos: (Lee) Courtesy of Marina Lee, (Leighton) Photo by Justin Knight
For Madeline Eung Raehui
 CONTENTS

Acknowledgments xi
About the Authors xiii
Personal Notes from the Authors xv

PART I SETTING THE STAGE 1

Chapter 1 Immigration and Education in the USA 3

Chapter 2 It Takes More Than a Village 15

Chapter 3 The Interplay Between Language and Culture 23

Chapter 4 Staying Mindful of Nuances 43

Chapter 5 Effective Cross-­Cultural Communications in School Contexts 65

PART II THE FAMILY AND THE CLASSROOM 73

Chapter 6 Perspectives on the Educator’s Role 75

Chapter 7 Cultural Values and Diversity 85

Chapter 8 Working with Multicultural Families 95

ix
x Contents

PART III REMEMBERING THE INDIVIDUAL 109

Chapter 9 Making Space for Individual Self-­Actualization 111

Chapter 10 Addressing Neurodiversity with Cross-­Cultural Families 119

PART IV SUPPORTING STUDENTS WITH HIGHER

EDUCATION PLANS 131

Chapter 11 Introduction to Supporting Students with Higher Education Plans 133

Chapter 12 Navigating High-Pressure Constructs 137

Chapter 13 Cultural Perspectives on Testing and Creating a Comprehensive

Best-­Fit College List 141

Appendix 1: Learning Through Extracurricular Activities 155

Appendix 2: Common Greetings 163

Resources Consulted 169

Conclusion 175

Index 177
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T urning an idea into a book was both challenging and rewarding. We especially want to
thank the individuals who helped make this happen. We are incredibly grateful for the
contributions of research and experiences from students, colleagues, and friends to this book;
whether small or large, the friendly spirit and assistance were always significant and meant
much more to us than words can express.

Alexandra Koch-­Liu Elaine Yining Yan Midori Yasamura

Anthony J. Lee Fr. Jaehwa Lee Naeun Ruby Koo
Amardeep Bhatia Grace Haddad Nathaniel Dvorkin
Amelia Stevens Graeme Peele Peter Berzilos
Annie Dong Hanjing Wang Rebecca Grappo
Aparna Prasad Hanson Liu Rebecca Leighton
April J. Remfrey Harry Gallen Ryan Jin
Ava Shaw James Holden Sam Fleischmann
Bernard West Jane Namussis Sanaa Gupta
Caroline Min Jean Louis Sanjna Srinivasan
Chris Zhengda Lu Jeffrey Li Sarah Loring de Garcia
Christina Linden John Youngho Lee Shirley Brito
Chujie Qiu Joshua Andrew Guo Sonya Pareek
Claudia Gonzalez Salinas Julie Moloney Sophia Tanh
David Hawkins Junming Xing Tammy Alt
Derek O’Leary Kara Madden Tejas West
Diana Rangraves Kelly Lu Teo Salgado
Donovan Richards Linus Law
Karen V. Wynn, PhD. Metta Dael

xi
xii Acknowledgments

We are grateful for the guidance of our mentors over the years, including Jerry Murphy,
Fernando Reimers, Monica Higgins, Josephine Kim, John Curtis Perry, Juliana Chen, Sung-­
Yoon Lee, Steven Koltai, Molefi Mataboge, Jed Willard, Michael Goldstein, and countless
other colleagues and friends from UNESCO APEID, the Korean Development Institute,
Tokyo Parawood, the University of Gondar, Praphamontree School, Harvard Graduate
School of Education, the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, and many, many, many
schools around the world with whom we’ve had the good fortune to work.
We express our gratitude to the amazing community of global educators at Envoys, who
have taught us both how to truly collaborate across geographic and cultural borders. Special
thanks to Felipe Correa, Isabel Eslava, Luis Garcia, Angela Gomez, Daniela Gomez, Annie
Harold, Mason Hults, Daniel Matallana, Annie Peuquet, and Laura Rocha for their con-
stant support, advice, and inspiration.
We thank the team at Cogita Education Initiatives, past and present, who have stood
strong and compassionate through the years. They are indisputably a group of creative souls
who give it their all to educate responsibly. With their intelligence, grace, and humor, they
have given a new definition to teamwork, always inspiring me to do and be better as a per-
son and a member of this power team.

Cindy Xuejiao Lin Jill K. Schaffer Tingjun (Tina) Liu

Diana Xiunan Jin Jessie Zhijie Yang Yingyi (Wenny) Lin
Haoyi (Vivian) Li Nora Yasamura

Marina would also like to thank our colleagues and wonderful team members who have
supported our important work with families in meaningful ways: Caitlin McGuire, Julie
Moloney, Kate Milani, and Tammy Alt.
Thanks to the Jossey-­Bass and Wiley team who helped us so much in shepherding us in
the creation of our first book. Special thanks to Amy Fandrei, acquisitions editor; Mary Beth
Rossworm, editorial assistant; Pete Gaughan, managing editor; Tom Dinse, development
editor; Premkumar Narayanan, content refinement specialist; Julie Kerr, copyeditor; and the
composition team at Straive for your patience and support.
We thank our nieces and nephews, Alex, Daphne, Emilia, and Magnolia, for their curios-
ity, bravery, and wit.
Seth would like to thank his parents, Arlene and Jeff, and brother, Max, for modeling
how to navigate the world with empathy, understanding, and respect. Marina would like to
thank Gomo and Elena and her family of educators, especially her talented siblings, Anthony
J. Lee, Sophia Lee Tanh, and Father Jaehwa Lee, and especially her father and dear mother,
John and Regina, whose sacrifices and courage have always given strength for the path ahead.
 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

B orn in Incheon, South Korea, Marina Minhwa Lee moved to the United States at a
young age, gaining an early perspective on the role of students in serving as cross-­
cultural “brokers” for families. A former biological researcher, Marina earned her Master of
Education from Harvard Graduate School of Education, where her studies focused on
immigration, education, and identities.
Marina went on to found Cogita Education Initiatives, a leading provider of educational
advising services that empowers students to connect together for the common good. Cogita
is committed to enlightening and educating global leaders by cultivating their potential to
be changemakers for their generation. Through Cogita, Marina has worked with hundreds
of immigrants and international families on transitions to the U.S. educational culture. She
is a professional member of the Independent Educational Consultants Association, the
National Association of College Admission Counseling, and The Association of Boarding
Schools. She consults regularly with leading independent schools on international student
support, cultural competency training, and global education curriculum. She can be reached
at [email protected].
Seth Leighton grew up in a small town on the coast of Maine, regularly exploring the
outdoors with his friends and family. After attending the local public school in rural Maine,
his desire for adventure and exploration has led him around the world, and he has lived,
worked, and traveled across North America, South America, Asia, Africa, Europe, and
Australia.
Seth co-­founded Envoys, a unique organization that partners with innovative teachers
and schools to push the boundaries of possibility for global education. Using a blended
model of online courses and focused international travel programming, Envoys builds the
skill sets associated with global competency. Seth graduated cum laude from Harvard College
and has earned advanced degrees from the Harvard Graduate School of Education and
the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy. Seth can be reached at [email protected].

xiii
 PERSONAL NOTES FROM THE AUTHORS

Personal Note from Marina Lee: This Is My Why

At five years old, I immigrated to the United States of America from Incheon, South Korea.
It was very clear to me, even at that age, that there were certain gender expectations
within my family, no matter where I lived. I distinctly recall my parents scolding me for not
pouring the water properly into the glasses or setting the dinner plates down delicately. As
per their training and patterned behaviors, each time they were prefaced with, “Girls
should . . .”
I didn’t realize until college that many of the gender expectations from my family and my
school community contradicted each other. Each seemed to define what successful members
of a community looked like:

• If I followed one set of expectations, I would be considered a disempowered woman.

• If I followed the other, I would be a bold, unrighteous woman brought up without man-
ners, therefore shaming myself and my family.

Even as young as 10 years old, I cut up fruit and made coffee for my father’s guests and
friends of his or the family who visited our home. I often sat with them for a few minutes
and asked about how they were doing, allowed them to ask me questions about school and
grades, and then went upstairs to my room to study.
Schoolwork was the only excuse that would be a good enough reason not to stay long
with the guests. I excused myself politely, indicating I had a lot of schoolwork to do. I’d get
kind nods and enthusiastic “of course, of course” and other words of approval. In retrospect,
they were expressions of appreciation for following a culturally conditioned norm everyone
could rely on.
Even if a child providing snacks to guests was not expected in some households, it was
worthy of praise when she did. Yejul ee joh tah, meaning I was brought up with such strong
etiquette, reflecting the good family upbringing and being a good girl for following
their norm.

xv
xvi Personal Notes From The Authors

Almost any Korean household would agree that my role at the time wasn’t surprising to
them and would receive a lot of micro-­gender-­specific admiration. If one of my brothers
were to set up fruit for the guests, the praise would have been different, expressing an
out-­of-­the-­ordinary surprise and novelty.

Friends Opened Me to Another Perspective

When my friends came over and saw me prepare these snacks, they were confused. Most
feminists among us, or what we thought of like feminism, said I was a servant to men. They
did not understand why I needed to bring my parents’ guests anything. There was no praise
from them. I felt embarrassed by what they thought of me, whereas I thought I was doing
the right thing in my family.
Antithetical to this is how girls are brought up in the United States. Here, being bold,
independent, and even fierce is a good thing. Not speaking up means you don’t have an
opinion of your own, which means you don’t think critically or have a strong sense of self,
not that you were gracious enough to let others speak their minds and listen to them.
It was not surprising then when my primary school teacher asked my parents to meet her,
that although I was top of my class in grades and getting an A, she told them I was too quiet.
I needed to speak up in class and share more of my opinions. This was what would jeopard-
ize my grade. My father told me I needed to do better in school. Without realizing the
impact of her words, my teacher just made my father speak with me about values that
seemed to go against those I was brought up with. I was told conflicting messages, and
I didn’t know how to reconcile them. This started a spiral of identity questioning that inevi-
tably pitted two parts of my identity against each other, and it felt like there could be only
one winner.

Within Cultural Clarity: What Is Good and Bad

What I thought was “good” was “bad” and propagated disempowerment of women in U.S.
society. I was a part of a regression seen through the lens of my friends’—­and many other—­
“white” adults’ eyes.
As I grew older, I didn’t fully understand the complexity of cultural contexts beyond our
linear color graph of good, bad, and grey areas. The grey area implied it could be good or
bad depending on the context. I have now discovered that culturally influenced behavior,
customs, and traditions don’t fit into these bipolar, two-­dimensional extremes with the grey
area in between—­that is, there’s no possibility of many traditions having the potential to be
either good or bad, right or wrong.
 Personal Notes From The Authors xvii

I hope this book allows others to see instead that these traditions are, on the whole, linked
to another plane of existence that is deeply meaningful to the individual and families. They
are tied to the practice and historical connections that have shaped our values and, thus,
influenced our identity.

Personal Note from Seth Leighton

My childhood was characterized by a distinct lack of cultural diversity. Growing up in the
1980s and 1990s in the largely homogenous state of Maine, my interactions with cultures
different from my own were limited to the stereotypes portrayed through American enter-
tainment and media at the time.
While my parents, teachers, and greater community, by and large, provided consistent
messages for sensitivity and tolerance, like many white Americans, I grew up in a context
that supported a sense of my culture being the fundamental “correct” one, and the basis for
comparison between all other ways of being. College provided one immediate shake for this
perspective, but it was not until I was able to put myself into a wholly new situation that
I began to truly appreciate the challenges of living in a cross-­cultural milieu.

Broadening My World, and My Worldview

My international career began shortly after college when I took a volunteer teaching assign-
ment at a rural high school in the Rayong Province of Thailand. The first few weeks of my
time in Rayong were a whirlwind of work at the school, fighting through the normal experi-
ences of any first-­time teacher trying desperately to stay ahead with lesson planning and
classroom dynamics. I was very lucky to have experienced colleagues to rely on for the basics
of student management and to listen to ideas for creative lessons and activities. Very gradu-
ally, I built a degree of confidence in my own identity as an educator and took heart in the
real progress I saw in my students.
While at the school, I was placed with a host family who owned a large furniture factory.
My one-­room apartment was perched inside the factory, and my door opened out on
400 people crafting, assembling, and boxing rubberwood furniture for shipment around
the world.
While my host family was incredibly generous and amazingly kind, my hometown com-
munity seemed far away, and I felt a real disconnect from the people in my immediate sur-
roundings that was hard to manage. Having grown up in a small town in rural Maine, I was
accustomed to a sense of neighborliness that was hard to picture occurring in my present
circumstances. The physical and cultural distance from those around me seemed impossible
to bridge—­how would I ever be able to start a conversation?
xviii Personal Notes From The Authors

However, my feeling of connection would come back from the strangest set of circum-
stances, as one night I got a knock on my door from the brother in my host family. There
had been a delay in manufacturing, and an order had to be shipped out immediately. Could
I help with the packing?
Feeling a bit awkward, but eager to be of use, I took a spot on the factory floor. I was
greeted not with wariness, or even ambivalence, but instead with warm smiles and a happy
sense of camaraderie. I was handed a roll of shipping tape and given the task of closing off
the box of folding wooden chairs, destined for the shelves of Crate & Barrel.
That experience gave me a true immersion into the Thai concept of sanuk. More than
having fun, sanuk is about finding a gentle humor and pleasure in any activity. Jokes, songs,
and consistent friendly banter were the norm on the assembly and packing lines, and made
the hours fly by.
Soon I was on the factory floor on a regular basis. Welcomed in no small part as a teacher
of many of their children, I developed a real sense of belonging with the factory workers. My
Thai slowly improved, and the reality of this “far end” of the global supply chain became
very real for me, forever altering my perception of how products are made and how benefits
of employment and trade are distributed around the world. Most importantly, it was quite
humbling to feel such openness from people whose backgrounds were so different from mine.

Continuing My Journey
Since my time in Thailand, my experiences interacting with people with views of the world
that are radically different from my own have only grown. When I was 26 years old, I
received a fellowship from the U.S. Department of State to teach at a university in the city
of Gondar in northern Ethiopia.
This was a metropolis of some 250,000 people, with barely a handful of foreigners living
full time, mostly involved with the university and medical school. Gondar itself was a for-
mer capital of Ethiopia, with the massive fort still standing as a symbol of the Emperor
Fasilides’s seventeenth-­century kingdom that stretched over most of Northern Africa. By the
time I arrived, the city (and the country) had suffered through a combination of drought,
corruption and misrule, and foreign occupation that had devastated its economy for years.
Things were (and are) incredibly difficult for my students. Incredibly bright, talented, and
hardworking, they faced daily challenges of supplies and materials, yet they preserved and
served as a daily source of motivation for me.
Roughly two months into my time in Ethiopia, I developed a cough and mild fever. What
might have kept me home in bed for a morning in another place felt like a major cause for
Another random document with
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 The first-floor flat of a building in Hertford Street seemed removed,
thought Christopher as he walked up to it on a very thick carpet, and
ignored the lift, which had anyhow not been suggested by the hardened
porter, from the necessity for travelling by tube. Yet she had said she always
went to The Immortal Hour by tube. Was it possible that there existed
people who enjoyed tubes? He thought it was not possible. And to emerge
from the quiet mahoganied dignity of the entrance hall of these flats and
proceed on one’s feet to the nearest tube instead of getting into at least a
taxi, caused wonder to settle on his mind. A Rolls-Royce wouldn’t have
been out of the picture, but at least there ought to be a taxi.
Why did she do such things, and tire herself out, and get her lovely little
feet wet? He longed to take care of her, to prevent her in all her doings, to
put his great strong body between her and everything that could in any way
hurt her. He hoped George had taken this line. He was sure he must have.
Any man would. Any man—the words brought him back to Stephen, who
was, he was convinced, a suitor, even if she did forget his name. Perhaps
she forgot because he was one of many. What so likely? One of many....
He felt suddenly uneasy again, and rang the bell of the flat in a great
hurry, as if by getting in quickly he could somehow forestall and confound
events.
The door was opened by Mrs. Mitcham, whom he was later so
abundantly to know. All unconscious of the future they looked upon each
other for the first time; and he saw a most respectable elderly person, not a
parlourmaid, for she was without a cap, nor a lady’s maid he judged for
some reason, though he knew little of ladies’ maids, but more like his idea
—he had often secretly wished he had one—of a nanny; and she saw a fair,
long-legged young man, with eyes like the eyes of children when they
arrive at a birthday party.
‘Will Mrs. Cumfrit be in soon?’ he asked; and the way he asked matched
the look in his eyes. ‘I know she is out—but how soon will she be in?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ said Mrs. Mitcham, considering the eager-eyed
young gentleman.
‘Well, look here—could I come in and wait?’
Naturally Mrs. Mitcham hesitated.
‘Well, I’ll only have to wait downstairs, then, and I can’t stand that
porter.’
 Mrs. Mitcham happened not to be able to stand the porter either, and her
face relaxed a little.
‘Is Mrs. Cumfrit expecting you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Christopher boldly; for so she was, the following Sunday
week.
‘She usually tells me——’ began Mrs. Mitcham doubtfully; but she did
draw a little aside, upon which he promptly went in. And as he gave her his
hat and coat she hoped it was all right, for she thought she had her
mistress’s friends and acquaintances at her fingers’ ends, and the young
gentleman had certainly never been there before.
She took him towards the drawing-room.
‘What name shall I say, sir, when Mrs. Cumfrit comes in?’ she inquired,
turning to him at the door.
‘Mr. Christopher Monckton,’ he said,—abstractedly, because he was
going to see Catherine’s room, the room she probably spent most of her
time in, her shrine; and Mrs. Mitcham hesitating a little—for suppose she
had done wrong, letting in a stranger, and the tea-table put ready with poor
Mr. Cumfrit’s silver spoons and sugar-basin on it? Ought she not rather to
have asked the young gentleman to wait in the hall?—Mrs. Mitcham, with
doubt in her heart, opened the door and allowed him to pass in, eyeing him
as he passed.
No, he didn’t look like that sort of person at all, she rebuked and
encouraged herself. She knew a gentleman when she saw one. Still, she left
the door a tiny crack open, so that she would be able to hear if—— Also,
she thought it as well to cross the hall with careful footsteps, and cast an
appraising eye over his coat.
It was the coat of a gentleman; a rough coat, a worn coat, but
unmistakable, and she went softly back into her kitchen, leaving its door
wide open, and while she as noiselessly as possible cut bread and butter she
listened for the sound of her mistress coming in, and, even more attentively,
in order to be quite on the safe side, for the sound of any one going out.
The last thing, however, in the world that the young man who had just
got into the drawing-room wanted to do was to go out of it again. He
wanted to stay where he was for ever. Wonderful to have this little time
alone with her things before she herself appeared. It was like reading the
enchanting preface to a marvellous book. Next to being with her, this was
the happiest of situations. For these things were as much expressions of
herself as the clothes she wore. They would describe her to him, let him
into at least a part, and a genuine part, of her personality.
And then, at his very first glance round, he felt it was not her room at all,
but a man’s room. George’s room. George still going on. And going on
flagrantly, shamelessly, in his great oak chairs and tables, and immense oil
paintings, and busts, marble busts, corpsey white things on black pedestals
in corners. Did nobody ever really die, then? he asked himself indignantly.
Was there no end to people’s insistence on somehow surviving? Hardened
into oak, gathered up into busts and picture frames, the essence of George
still solidly cohabited with his widow. How in such a mausoleum could she
ever leave off remembering him? Clearly she didn’t want to, or she would
have chucked all this long ago, and had bright things, colour, flowers, silky
soft things, things like herself, about her. She didn’t want to. She had
canonised George, in that strange way people did canonise quite
troublesome and unpleasant persons once they were safely dead.
He stood staring round him, and telling himself that he knew how it had
happened—oh yes, he could see it all—how at the moment of George’s
death Catherine, flooded with pity, with grief, perhaps with love now that
she was no longer obliged to love, had clung on to his arrangements, not
suffering a thing to be touched or moved or altered, pathetically anxious to
keep it exactly as he used to, to keep him still alive at least in his furniture.
Other widows he had heard of had done this; and widowers—but fewer of
them—had done it too. He could imagine it easily, if one loved some one
very much, or was desperately sorry because one hadn’t. But to go on year
after year? Yet, once one had begun, how stop? There was only one way to
stop happily and naturally, and that was to marry again.
And then, as he was looking round, his nose lifted in impatient scorn of
George’s post-mortem persistence, and quite prepared to see whisky and
cigars, grown dusty, on some table in a corner—why not? they would only
be in keeping with all the rest—he caught sight of a little white object on
the heavy sofa at right angles to a fireplace in which feebly flickered the
minutest of newly lit fires. A bit of her. A trace, at last, of her.
He darted across and pounced on it. Soft, white, sweet with the
sweetness he had noticed when he was near her, it was a small fox fur, a
thing a woman puts round her neck.
 He snatched it up, and held it to his face. How like her, how like her. He
was absorbed in it, buried in it, breathing its delicate sweet smell; and
Catherine, coming in quietly with her latchkey, saw him like this, over there
by the sofa with his back to the door.
She stood quiet in the doorway, watching him with surprised
amusement, because it seemed so funny. Really, to have this sort of thing
happening to one’s boa at one’s age! Queer young man. Perhaps having all
that flaming red hair made one....
But, though he had heard no sound, he was aware of her, and turned
round quickly, and caught her look of amusement, and flushed a deep red.
He put the fur carefully down on the sofa again and came over to her.
‘Well, why shouldn’t I?’ he said defiantly, throwing back his head.
She laughed and shook hands and said she was very glad he had come.
She was so easy, so easy; taking things so much as a matter of course,
things that were so little a matter of course that they made him tremble—
things like drying her shoes the night before in the taxi, or feeling on his
face the soft white fur. If she would be shy, be self-conscious for even an
instant, he thought, he would be more master of himself as well as of her.
But she wasn’t. Not a trace of it. Just simple friendliness, as if everything he
said and did was usual, was inevitable, was what she quite expected, or else
didn’t matter one way or the other. She wasn’t even surprised to see him.
Yet he had assured her he never could get away on Saturdays.
‘I couldn’t help coming,’ he said, the flush fixed on his face. ‘You didn’t
expect me to wait really till Sunday week, did you?’
‘I’m very glad you didn’t,’ she said, ringing the bell for tea and sitting
down at the tea-table and beginning to pull off her gloves.
They stuck because they were wet with the rain she had been out in.
‘Let me do that,’ he said, eagerly, watching her every movement.
She held out her hands at once.
‘You’ve been walking in the rain,’ he said reproachfully, pulling away at
the soaked gloves. Then, looking down at her face, the grey hard daylight of
the March afternoon full on it from the high windows, he saw that she was
tired—fagged out, in fact—and he added, alarmed, ‘What have you been
doing?’
 ‘Doing?’ she repeated, smiling up at the way he was staring at her.
‘Why, coming home as quickly as I could out of the rain.’
‘But why do you look so tired?’
She laughed. ‘Do I look tired?’ she said. ‘Well, I’m not a bit.’
‘Then why do you look as if you had walked hundreds of miles and not
slept for weeks?’
‘I told you you ought to see me in daylight,’ she said, with amused eyes
on his face of concern. ‘You’ve only seen me lit up at night, or in the dark. I
looked just the same then, only you couldn’t see me. Anybody can look not
tired if it’s dark enough.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. ‘You’ve been walking about, and going in
tubes. Look here, I wish you’d tell me something——’
‘I’ll tell you anything,’ she said.
What sweet eyes she had, what incredibly sweet eyes, if only they
weren’t so tired....
‘But you must sit down,’ she went on. ‘You’re so enormous that it hurts
my neck to have to look up at you.’
He threw himself into the chair next to her. ‘What I want to know is
——’ he began, leaning forward.
He broke off as the door opened, and Mrs. Mitcham came in with the
tea.
‘Go on,’ said Catherine encouragingly. ‘Unless it’s something
overwhelmingly indiscreet.’
‘Well, I was only going to ask you—do you like tubes?’
She laughed. She was always laughing. ‘No,’ she said, pouring out the
tea.
The teapot was impressive; all the tea arrangements were impressive,
except the part you ate. On that had descended a severely restraining hand,
thinning the butter on the bread, withholding the currants from the cake.
Not that Christopher saw anything of this, because he saw only Catherine;
but afterwards, when he went over the visit in his head, he somehow was
aware of a curious contrast between the tea and the picture frames.
‘Then why do you go in them?’ he asked, Mrs. Mitcham having gone
again and shut the door.
 ‘Because they’re cheap.’
His answer to that was to glance round the room—round, in his mind’s
eye, Hertford Street as well, and Park Lane so near by, and the reserved
expensiveness of the entrance hall, and the well-got-up, even if personally
objectionable, porter.
She followed his glance. ‘Tubes and this,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know. They
don’t match, do they. Perhaps,’ she went on, ‘I needn’t be so frightfully
careful. But I’m rather scared just to begin with. I shall know better after
the first year——’
‘What first year?’ he asked, as she paused; but he wasn’t really listening,
because she had put up her hands and taken off her hat, and for the first
time he saw her without her being half extinguished.
He gazed at her. She went on talking. He didn’t hear. She had dark hair,
brushed off her forehead. It had tiny silver threads in it. He saw them. She
was, as he had felt, as he had somehow known she was, older than himself,
—but only a little; nothing to matter; just enough to make it proper that he
should adore her, that his place should be at her feet. He gazed at her
forehead,—so candid, with something dove-like about it, with something
extraordinarily good, and reassuring, and infinitely kind, but with faint lines
on it as though she were worried. And then her grey eyes, beautifully
spaced, very light grey with long dark eyelashes, had a pathetic look in
them of having been crying. He hadn’t noticed that before. At the theatre
they had shone. He hoped she hadn’t been crying, and wasn’t worried, and
that her laughing now wasn’t only being put on for him, for the visitor.
She stopped short in what she had been saying, noticing that he wasn’t
listening and was looking at her with extreme earnestness. Her expression
changed to amusement.
‘Why do you look at me so solemnly?’ she asked.
‘Because I’m terribly afraid you’ve been crying.’
‘Crying?’ she wondered. ‘What should I have been crying about?’
‘I don’t know. How should I know? I don’t know anything.’
He leaned over and timidly touched her sleeve. He had to. He couldn’t
help it. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.
‘Tell me some things,’ he said.
‘I have been telling you, and you didn’t listen,’ she said.
 ‘Because I was looking at you. You know, I’ve never seen you once in
my life before without your hat.’
‘Never once in your life before,’ she repeated smiling. ‘As if you had
been seeing me since your cradle.’
‘I’ve always known you,’ he said solemnly; and at this she rather quickly
offered him some cake, which he ignored.
‘In my dreams,’ he went on, gazing at her with eyes which were, she was
afraid, a little—well, not those of an ordinary caller.
‘Oh—dreams. My dear Mr. Monckton. Do,’ she said, waving
intangiblenesses aside, ‘have some more tea.’
‘You must call me Chris.’
‘But why?’
‘Because we’ve known each other always. Because we’re going to know
each other always. Because I—because I——’
‘Well but, you know, we haven’t,’ she interrupted—for who could tell
what her impetuous new friend might be going to say next? ‘Not really. Not
outside make-believe. Not beyond The Immortal Hour. Can you see the
cigarettes anywhere? Yes—there they are. Over there on that table. Will you
get them?’
He got up and fetched them.
‘You’ve no idea how lonely I am,’ he said, putting them down near her.
‘Are you? I’m very sorry. But—are you really? I should imagine you
with heaps and heaps of friends. You’re so—so——’ She hesitated. ‘So
warm-hearted,’ she finished; and couldn’t help smiling as she said it, for he
was apparently very warm-hearted indeed. His heart, like his hair, seemed
incandescent.
‘Heaps and heaps of friends don’t make one less lonely as long as one
hasn’t got—well, the one person. No, I won’t smoke. Who is Stephen?’
How abrupt. She couldn’t leap round with this quickness. ‘Stephen?’ she
repeated, a little bewildered. Then she remembered, and her face again
brimmed with amusement.
‘Oh yes—you thought I was going to take him to the Zoo to-morrow,’
she said. ‘The Zoo! Why, he’s preaching to-morrow evening at St. Paul’s.
You’d better go and listen.’
 He caught hold of her hands. ‘You must tell me one thing,’ he said. ‘You
must.’
‘I told you I’ll tell you anything,’ she said, pulling her hands away.
‘Is Stephen—are you—you’re not going to marry Stephen?’
For a moment she stared at him in profound astonishment. Then she
burst into laughter, and laughed and laughed till her eyes really did cry.
‘Oh, my dear boy—oh, my dear, dear boy!’ she laughed, wiping her eyes
while he sat and watched her.
And at that moment Mrs. Mitcham appeared at the door and announced
two ladies—their miserable name sounded like Fanshawe—and two ladies,
who might well be Fanshawes, immediately swam in and enveloped
Catherine in arms of enormous length, it seemed to him, kissing her
effusively—how deeply he hated them—and exclaiming in incoherent
twitters that they had come to carry her off, that the car was there, that they
wouldn’t take no, that Ned was waiting——
Lord, what snakes.
He went away at once. No good staying just to see her being clawed
away by Fanshawes to the waiting Ned. And who the devil was Ned? Yes,
there he was—waiting right enough, sitting snugly in a Daimler that looked
very new and expensive, while the porter, a changed man, hovered
solicitously near. Ned needed every bit of the new Daimler and the fur rug
and the hideously smart chauffeur to make up for the shape of his silly nose,
thought Christopher, scornfully striding off down the street.

IV
Till the following Friday his week was harassed. It was wonderful to be in
love, to have found her, but it would have been still more wonderful if he
had known a little more about her. He wanted to be able to think of her and
follow her through each minute of the day,—picture her, see her in his
mind’s eye doing this and doing that, going here and going there; and there
was nothing but a blank.
They were such strangers. Only, of course, strangers on the lower level
of everyday circumstances. On the higher level, the starry level of splendid,
unreasoning love, he had, as he told her, always known her. But to know her
on that level and not on any other was awkward. It cut him off so
completely. He couldn’t think what to do next.
Once, before he met her, in those dark days when he was still a fool and
reasoned, he had remarked to Lewes that he thought it a pity and liable to
lead to disappointment that love should begin, as it apparently did begin,
suddenly, at the top of emotion. There ought, he said, to be a gradual
development in acquaintanceship, a steady unfolding of knowledge of each
other, a preparatory and of course extremely agreeable crescendo, leading
up to the august passion itself. As it was, ignorant of everything really about
the woman except what she looked and sounded like, why—there you were.
It was bad, finished Christopher, aloofly considering the faulty
arrangements of nature, to start with infatuation, because you couldn’t
possibly do anything after that but cool off.
Now, remembering this when he couldn’t sleep one night, he laughed
himself to scorn for a prig and an idiot. That’s all one knew about it when
one wasn’t in love oneself. Love gave one a sixth sense. It instantly
apprehended. The symbol of the sweet outer aspect of the loved one was
before one’s eyes; from it one was aware of her inward and spiritual grace.
The beloved looked so and so; therefore she was so and so. Love knew. But,
on a lower level, on the level of mere convenience, it would be better, he
admitted, to have had some preliminary acquaintance. He worshipped
Catherine, and they were strangers. This was awkward. It cut him off. He
didn’t know what to do next.
‘I must see you,’ he wrote, after three evenings at The Immortal Hour by
himself. ‘When can I?’
And he sent the note with some roses,—those delicate pale roses in bud
that come out so exquisitely in a warm atmosphere. They reminded him of
her. They too were symbols, he said to himself, symbols of what would
happen to her also if only she would let him be her atmosphere, her warmth;
and though these roses were very expensive—ever so much for each bud—
he sent three dozen, a real bunch of them, rejoicing in the extravagance, in
doing something for her that he couldn’t really afford.
She wrote back: ‘But you are coming to tea on Sunday. Didn’t we say
you were? Your roses are quite beautiful. Thank you so very, very much.’
And when he saw the letter, her first letter, the first bit of her
handwriting, by his plate at breakfast, he seized it so quickly and turned so
red that Lewes was painfully clear as to who had written it. Poor Chris.
Cumfrit. Clutches. ...
So he wasn’t to see her till the next Sunday. Well, this state of things
couldn’t be allowed to go on. It was simply too starkly ridiculous. He must
get on quicker next time; manage somehow to explain, to put things on their
right footing. What the things were, and what the right footing was, he was
far too much perturbed to consider.
Of course he had gone to St. Paul’s on the Sunday after his visit, but he
had not seen her. He might as easily have hoped to find the smallest of
needles in the biggest of haystacks as Catherine at that evening service,
with the lights glaring in one’s eyes, and rows and rows of dark figures, all
apparently exactly alike, stretching away into space.
Stephen he had seen, and also heard, and had dismissed him at once
from his mind as one about whom he needn’t worry. No wonder she had
laughed when he asked if she were going to marry him. Marry Stephen?
Good God. The same age as she was, indeed! Why, he was old enough to be
her father. Standing up in the pulpit he looked like a hawk, a dry hawk.
What he said, after the first sentence, Christopher didn’t know, because of
how earnestly he was still searching for Catherine; but his name, he saw on
the service paper a sidesman thrust into his hand, was Colquhoun,—the
Rev. Stephen Colquhoun, Rector of Chickover with Barton St. Mary,
wherever that might be, and he was preaching, so Christopher gathered
from the text and the first sentence, in praise of Love.
What could he know about it, thought Christopher, himself quivering
with the glorious thing,—what could he know, that hawk up there, that
middle-aged bone? As well might they put up some congealed spinster to
explain to a congregation of mothers the emotions of parenthood. And he
thought no more about Stephen. He no longer wanted him stoned. It would
be waste of stones.
Of Ned that week he did sometimes think, because although Ned was
manifestly a worm he was also equally manifestly a rich worm, and might
as such dare to pester Catherine with his glistening attentions. But he felt
too confident in Catherine’s beautiful nature to be afraid of Ned. Catherine,
who loved beauty, who was so much moved by it—witness her rapt face at
The Immortal Hour—would never listen to blandishments from anyone
with Ned’s nose. Besides, Ned was elderly. In spite of the fur rug up to his
chin, Christopher had seen that all right. He was an elderly, puffy man.
Elderliness and love! He grinned to himself. If only the elderly could see
themselves....
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday he went to The Immortal Hour, and
sat and wilted because she wasn’t there. Thursday morning he sent her the
roses. Friday morning he got her letter, and spent several hours when he
ought to have been working in assuring himself that this couldn’t go on, this
being separated, this having to wait two more whole days and a half, and
then perhaps call there only to find ossifications like the Fanshawes calling
there too, and turgescences like Ned, and that callosity Stephen.
At lunch-time on Friday he telephoned to her, and held his breath while
he waited, for fear she should be out.
No—there was her voice, her heavenly little coo. ‘Oh, my darling!’ he
was within an ace of crying down the thing in his relief. Only just did he
manage not to, and as it took him a moment to gulp the word back again she
repeated with gentle inquiry—what a perfect telephone voice—‘Yes—who
is it?’
‘It’s me. Chris. Look here——’
‘Who?’
‘Chris. Oh, you know. You said you’d call me Chris. Christopher, then.
Monckton. Look here, I wish you’d come and dine, will you? To-night?
There’s an awfully jolly little restaurant—what? You can’t? Oh, but you
must. Why can’t you? What? I can’t hear if you laugh. You’re not going to
that thing again? Why, what nonsense. It’s becoming an obsession. We’ll go
to it to-morrow night. Why didn’t you go last night? And the night before?
No—I want to talk. No—we can’t talk there. No, we must talk. No it isn’t—
not at all the same thing. I’ll come and fetch you at half-past seven. Yes but
you must. I think I’d better be at your place at seven. You’ll be ready, won’t
you? Yes I know—but that can wait till to-morrow night. All right then—
seven. I say, it’s simply frightfully ador—nice of you. Hullo—hullo—are
you there? They tried to cut us off. Look here—I’d better fetch you a little
before seven—say a quarter to—because the place might be crowded. And I
say, look here—hullo, hullo—don’t cut us off—oh, damn.’
The last words were addressed to deafness. He hung up the receiver, and
snatching at his hat went off to the restaurant, an amusing one that
specialised in Spanish dishes and might, he thought, interest her, to choose
and secure his table. He then went out and bought some more of the roses
she said were quite beautiful, and took them to the head waiter, who was all
intelligence, and instructed him to keep them carefully apart in water till a
quarter to seven, when they were to be put on his table. Then he went to
Wyndham Place to see if Lewes, who was working at economics and sat
indoors writing most of the day, would come out and play squash with him,
for he couldn’t go back to his office as if it were a day like any other day,
and exercise he must have,—violent exercise, or he felt he would burst.
Lewes went. He sighed to himself as he pushed his books aside, seeing
in this break-up of his afternoon a further extension of the Cumfrit clutches.
Poor Chris. He was in the bliss-stage now, the merest glance at his face
showed it; but—Lewes, besides being a highly promising political
economist, was also attached to the poets—

Full soon his soul would have her earthly freight,

And widows lie upon him with a weight
Heavy as frost....

Alas, alas, how could he have committed such a profanity? Lewes loathed
himself. The woman, of course, goading him,—Mrs. Cumfrit. And his
feeling towards a woman who could lower him to parody a beautiful poem
became as icily hostile as Adam’s ought to have been to Eve after she had
lowered him to the eating of half the apple; instead of which the
inexperienced man was weak, and let himself be inveigled into doing that
which had ultimately produced himself, Chris, and Mrs. Cumfrit.
Adam and Chris, reflected Lewes, sadly going to the club where they
played, and not speaking a word the whole way, were alike in this that they
neither of them could do without a woman. And always, whenever there
was a woman, trouble began; sooner or later trouble began. Or, if not actual
trouble, what a deadly, what a disintegrating dulness.
Lewes knew from his friend’s face, from the way he walked, from the
sound of his voice, and presently also from the triumphant quickness and
accuracy with which he beat him at squash, that something he considered
marvellous had happened to him that day. What had the widow consented
to? Neither of them now ever mentioned her; and if he, Lewes, said the
least thing about either women or love,—and being so deep in Donne and
wanting to discuss him it was difficult not to mention these two disturbers
of a man’s peace—if ever he said the least thing about them, his poor friend
at once began talking, very loud and most unnaturally, on subjects such as
the condition of the pavement in Wyndham Place, or the increasing number
of chocolate-coloured omnibuses in the streets. Things like that. Stupid
things, about which he said more stupid things. And he used to be so
intelligent, so vivid-minded. It was calamitous.
‘Shall we go and dine somewhere together to-night, old man?’ he
couldn’t resist suggesting, as Christopher walked back with him, more
effulgent than ever after the satisfaction of his triumphant exercise, and
chatting gaily on topics that neither of them cared twopence for. Just to see
what he would say, Lewes asked him.
‘I can’t to-night,’ said Christopher, suddenly very short.
‘The Immortal Hour again, I suppose,’ ventured Lewes after a pause,
trying to sound airy.
‘No,’ snapped Christopher. ‘I’m dining out.’
And Lewes, silenced, resigned, and melancholy, gave up.

V
When Christopher got to Hertford Street Catherine wasn’t ready because he
was earlier than he had said he would be; but Mrs. Mitcham opened the
door, wide and welcomingly this time, and looked pleased to see him and
showed him at once into the drawing-room, saying her mistress would not
be long.
The fire had been allowed to go out, and the room was so cold that his
roses were still almost as much in bud as ever. People had been there that
afternoon, he saw; the chairs were untidy, and there were cigarette ashes.
Well, not one of them was taking her out to dinner. They might call, but he
took her out to dinner.
Directly she came in he noticed she had a different hat on. It was a very
pretty hat, much prettier than the other one. Was it possible she had put it on
for him? Yet for whom else? Absorbed in the entrancingness of this thought
he had the utmost difficulty in saying how do you do properly. He stared
very hard, and gripped her hand very tight, and for a moment didn’t say
anything. And round her shoulders was the white fox thing he had held to
his face the other day; and her little shoes—well, he had better not look at
them.
‘This is great fun,’ she said as he gripped her hand, and she successfully
hid the agony caused by her fingers and her rings being crushed together.
‘It’s heaven,’ said Christopher.
‘No, no, that’s not nearly such fun as—just fun,’ she said, furtively
rubbing her released hand and making a note in her mind not to wear rings
next time her strong young friend was likely to say how do you do.
The pain had sent the blood flying up into her face. Christopher gazed at
her. Surely she was blushing? Surely she was no longer so self-possessed
and sure? Was it possible she was beginning to be shy? It gave him an
extraordinary happiness to think so, and she, looking at him standing there
with such a joyful face, couldn’t but catch and reflect some at least of his
light.
She laughed. It really was fun. It made her feel so young, frolicking off
like this with a great delighted boy. He was such an interesting, unusual
boy, full of such violent enthusiasms. She wished he need never grow older.
How charming to be as young and absurd as that, she thought, laughing up
at the creature. One never noticed how delightful youth was till one’s own
had finished. Well, she was going to be young for this one evening. He
treated her as if she were; did he really think it? It was difficult to believe,
yet still more difficult not to believe when one watched his face as he said
all the things he did say. How amusing, how amusing. She had been solemn
for so long, cloistered in duties for such years; and here all of a sudden was
somebody behaving as if she were twenty. It made her feel twenty; feel,
anyhow, of his own age. What fun. For one evening....
She laughed gaily. (No, he thought, she wasn’t shy. She was as secure as
ever, and as sure of her little darling self. He must have dreamed that blush.)
‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t been to a restaurant for ages.
Though I’m not sure we wouldn’t have been happier at The Immortal
Hour.’
‘I am,’ said Christopher. ‘Quite sure. Don’t you know we’ve got
marvellous things to say to each other?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said, ‘but I daresay some may come into my head as we go
along. Shall we start? Help me into my coat.’
 ‘What a jolly thing,’ he said, wrapping her in it with joyful care. He
knew nothing about women’s clothes, but he did feel that this was
wonderful—so soft, so light, and yet altogether made of fur.
‘It’s a relic,’ she said, ‘of past splendour. I used to be well off. Up to
quite a little while ago. And things like this have lapped over.’
‘I want to know all about everything,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell you anything you ask,’ she answered. ‘But you must promise to
like it,’ she added, smiling.
‘Why? Why shouldn’t I like it?’ he asked quickly, his face changing.
‘You’re not—you’re not going to be married?’
‘Oh—don’t be silly. There. I’m ready. Shall we go down?’
‘I suppose you insist on walking down?’
‘We can go in the lift if you like,’ she said, pausing surprised, ‘but it’s
only one floor.’
‘I want to carry you.’
‘Oh—don’t be silly,’ she said again, this time with a faint impatience.
The evening wouldn’t be at all amusing if he were going to be silly,
seriously silly. And if he began already might he not grow worse? George,
she remembered, used to be quite different after dinner from what he was
before dinner. Always kind, after dinner he became more than kind. But he
was her husband. One bore it. She had no wish for more than kindness from
anybody else. Besides, whatever one might pretend for a moment, one
wasn’t twenty, and one naturally didn’t want to be ridiculous.
She walked out of the flat thoughtfully. Perhaps she had better begin
nipping his effusiveness in the bud a little harder, whenever it cropped up.
She had nipped, but evidently not hard enough. Perhaps the simplest way—
and indeed all his buds would be then nipped for ever at once—would be to
tell him at dinner about Virginia. If seeing her as he had now done in full
daylight hadn’t removed his misconceptions, being told about Virginia
certainly would. Only—she hadn’t wanted to yet; she had wanted for this
one evening to enjoy the queer, sweet, forgotten feeling of being young
again, of being supposed to be young; which really, if one felt as young as
she quite often very nearly did, amounted to the same thing.
‘You’re not angry with me?’ he said, catching her up, having been
delayed on the stairs by Mrs. Mitcham who had pursued him with his
forgotten coat.
She smiled. ‘No, of course not,’ she said; and for a moment she forgot
his misconceptions, and patted his arm reassuringly, because he looked so
anxious. ‘You’re giving me a lovely treat. We’re going to enjoy our evening
thoroughly,’ she said.
‘And what are you giving me?’ he said—how adorable of her to pat him;
and yet, and yet—if she had been shy she wouldn’t have. ‘Aren’t you
giving me the happiest evening of my whole life?’
‘Oh,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘we mustn’t talk on different levels.
When I say something ordinary you mustn’t answer’—she laughed—‘with
a shout. If you do, the conversation will be trying.’
‘But how can I help what you call shouting when I’m with you at last,
after having starved, starved——’
‘Oh,’ she interrupted quickly, putting her hands up to her ears, ‘you
wouldn’t like it, would you, if I went deaf?’
He must go slower. He knew he must. But how go slower? He must hold
on to himself tightly. But how? How? And in another minute they would be
shut up close and alone in one of those infernal taxis.... Perhaps they had
better go by tube; yet that seemed a poor way of taking a woman out to
dinner. No, he couldn’t possibly do that. Better risk the taxi, and practise
self-control.
‘You know,’ she said when they were in it,—fortunately it was a very
fast one and would soon get there—‘only a few days ago you used to sit at
The Immortal Hour all quiet and good, and never say anything except
intelligent things about Celts. Now you don’t mention Celts, and don’t seem
a bit really intelligent. What has happened to you?’
‘You have,’ he said.
‘That can’t be true,’ she reasoned, ‘for I haven’t seen you for nearly a
week.’
‘That’s why,’ he said. ‘But look here, I don’t want to say things that’ll
make you stop your ears up again, and I certainly shall if we don’t talk
about something quite—neutral.’
‘Well, let’s. What is neutral enough?’ she smiled.
‘I don’t believe there’s anything,’ he said, thinking a moment. ‘There’s
nothing that wouldn’t lead me back instantly to you. There’s nothing in the
whole world that doesn’t make me think of you. Why, just the paving stones
—you walked on them. Just the shop-windows—Catherine has looked into
these. Just the streets—she has passed this way. Now don’t, don’t stop up
your ears—please don’t. Do listen. You see, you fill the world—oh don’t
put your fingers in your ears——’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said. ‘I was only just thinking that I believe I’m
going to have a headache.’
‘A headache?’
‘One of my headaches.’
‘Oh no—not really?’
He was aghast.
‘You’ll be all right when you’ve had some food,’ he said. ‘Are they bad?
Do you get bad ones?’
‘Perhaps if we don’t talk for a little while——’ she murmured, shutting
her eyes.
He went as dumb as a fish. His evening ... it would be too awful if it
were spoiled, if she had to go home....
She sat in her corner, her eyes tight shut.
He sat stiff in his, as if the least movement might shake the taxi and
make her worse, stealing anxious looks at her from time to time.
She didn’t speak again, nor did he.
In this way they reached the restaurant, and as he helped her out, his
alarmed eyes on her face, she smiled faintly at him and said she thought it
was going to be all right. And to herself she said, ‘At dinner I’ll tell him
about Virginia.’

VI
But she was weak; it was such fun; she couldn’t spoil it; not for this one
evening.
There were the roses, sisters to the roses in her room, making the table a
thing apart and cared for among the flock of tables decorated cynically with
a sad daffodil or wrinkled tulip stuck in sprigs of box and fir; and there the
welcoming head waiter, himself hovering over the proper serving of dishes
which all seemed to be what she chanced to like best, and there sat
Christopher opposite her, flushed with happiness and so obviously adoring
that the other diners noticed it and sent frequent discreet glances of
benevolent and sympathetic interest across to their corner, and nobody
seemed to think his attitude was anything but natural, for she couldn’t help
seeing that the glances, after dwelling benevolently on him, dwelt with
equal benevolence on her. It was too funny. It wouldn’t have been human
not to like it; and whatever misconception it was based on, and however
certainly it was bound to end, while it lasted it was—well, amusing.
On the wall to her left was a long strip of looking-glass, and she caught
sight of herself in it. No, she didn’t seem old,—not unsuitably old, even for
Christopher; in fact not old at all. It was really rather surprising. When did
one begin? True, the rose-coloured lights were very kindly in this
restaurant, and besides, she was amused and enjoying herself, and
amusement and enjoyment do for the time hide a lot of things in one’s face,
she reflected. What would Stephen say if he saw her at this moment?
She looked up quickly at Christopher, the thought laughing in her eyes;
but meeting his, fixed on her face in adoration, the thought changed to:
What would Stephen say if he saw Christopher?—and the laughter became
a little uneasy. Well, she couldn’t bother about that to-night; she would take
the good the gods were providing. There was always to-morrow, and to-
morrow and to-morrow to be dusty and dim in. For the next two hours she
was Cinderella at the ball; and afterwards, though there would be the rags,
all the rags of all the years, still she would have been at the ball.
‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Christopher, himself one large laugh
of joy.
‘I was wondering what Stephen—your friend Stephen—would say if he
saw us now.’
‘Poor old Jack-in-the-Box,’ said Christopher with easy irreverence. ‘I
suppose he’d think us worldly.’
She leaned forward. ‘What?’ she asked, her face rippling with a mixture
of laughter and dismay, ‘what was it you called him?’
‘I said poor old Jack-in-the-Box. So he is. I saw him in his box on
Sunday at St. Paul’s. I went, of course. I’d go anywhere on the chance of
seeing you. And there he was, poor old back number, gassing away about
love. What on earth he thinks he knows about it——’
 ‘Perhaps——’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps he knows a great deal. He has
got’—she hesitated again—‘he has got a quite young wife.’
‘Has he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself. Old bone.’
She stared at him. ‘Old what?’ she asked.
‘Bone,’ said Christopher. ‘You can’t get love out of a bone.’
‘But—but he loves her very much,’ she said.
‘Then he’s a rocky old reprobate.’
‘Oh Christopher!’ she said, helplessly.
It was the first time she had called him that, and it came out now as a
cry, half of rebuke, half of horrified amusement; but in whatever form it
came out the great thing to his enchanted ears was that it had got out, for
from that to Chris would be an easy step.
‘Well, so he is. He shouldn’t at that age. He should pray.’
‘Oh Christopher!’ cried Catherine again. ‘But she loves him too.’
‘Then she’s a nasty girl,’ said Christopher stoutly; and after staring at
him a moment she went off into a fit of laughter, and laughed in the
heavenly way he had already seen her laugh once before—yes, that was
over Stephen too—so it was; Stephen seemed a sure draw—with complete
abandonment, till she had to pull out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
‘I don’t mind your crying that sort of tears,’ said Christopher benignly,
‘but I won’t have any others.’
‘Oh,’ said Catherine, trying to recover, diligently wiping her eyes, ‘oh,
you’re so funny—you’ve no idea how funny——’
‘I can be funnier than that,’ said Christopher proudly, delighted that he
could make her laugh.
‘Oh, don’t be—don’t be—I couldn’t bear it. I haven’t laughed like this
since—I can’t remember when. Not for years, anyhow.’
‘Was George at all like his furniture?’
‘His furniture?’
‘Well, you’re not going to persuade me that that isn’t George’s, all that
solemn stuff in your drawing-room. Was he like that? I mean, because if he
was naturally you didn’t laugh much.’
‘Oh—poor darling,’ said Catherine quickly, leaving off laughing.
 He had been tactless. He had been brutal. He wanted to throw himself at
her feet. It was the champagne, of course; for in reality he had the highest
opinion of George, who not only was so admirably dead but also had
evidently taken great care of Catherine while he wasn’t.
‘I say, I’m most awfully sorry,’ he murmured, deeply contrite,—
whatever had possessed him to drag George into their little feast? ‘And I
like George most awfully. I’m sure he was a thoroughly decent chap. And
he can’t help it if he’s got a bit crystallised,—in his furniture, I mean, and
still hangs round——’
His voice trailed out. He was making it worse. Catherine’s face, bent
over her plate, was solemn.
Christopher could have bitten out his tongue. He was amazed at his own
folly. Had ever any man before, he asked himself distractedly, dragged in
the deceased husband on such an occasion? No kind of husband, no kind at
all, could be mentioned with profit at a little party of this nature, but a
deceased one was completely fatal. At one stroke Christopher had wiped
out her gaiety. Even if she hadn’t been fond of George, she was bound in
decency to go solemn directly he was brought in. But she was fond of him;
he was sure she was; and his own folly in digging him up at such a moment
was positively fantastic. He could only suppose it must be the champagne.
Impatiently he waved the waiter away who tried to give him more, and
gazed at Catherine, wondering what he could say to get her to smile again.
She was looking thoughtfully at her plate. Thinking of George, of
course, which was absolute waste of the precious, precious time, but
entirely his own idiotic fault.
‘Don’t,’ he murmured beseechingly.
She lifted her eyes, and when she saw his expression she couldn’t help
smiling a little, it was such intense, such concentrated entreaty. ‘Don’t
what?’ she asked.
‘Don’t think,’ he begged. ‘Not now. Not here. Except about us.’
‘But,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly what I was doing till——’
‘I know. I’m a fool. I can’t help somehow blurting things out to you. And
yet if you only knew the things I’ve by a miracle managed not to blurt.
Why, as if I didn’t know this is no place for George——’