Too Many Cousins

on his left hand.
“Have you come to see Vivien too?” Cecile asked rather curiously of Mr. Tuke. “I am tired of trying to get her on the telephone. If she is not back, I shall leave a note. We must have a talk. I told Mortimer he ought to see her. Did he call on you?”
“He did.”
“He is a little offended with Vivien just now. Or Lilian is. What did he say, Mr. Tuke? What does he think?”
But before Harvey could reply, Gecile’s attention was distracted. A young woman had turned into Brampton Street from Old Brompton Road.
“Here is Vivien,” the Frenchwoman exclaimed.
Miss Ardmore strode towards them like Diana, hailing her cousin in a clear and pleasant voice.
“Hello, Cecile! I haven’t seen you for months.”
A pair of candid grey eyes roved curiously among Mile Boulanger’s companions. Vivien Ardmore had perhaps no claim to beauty; her features were irregular, her nose too long, her scarlet mouth too wide; but her fine eyes were widely set, and she obviously had intelligence. Her expression, a little hard in repose, was lightened and transformed when she smiled. An admirable figure was admirably set off by a tailor-made coat and skirt of light grey flannel. On her pale gold hair, elaborately waved, perched a tiny grey hat with white flowers. White gloves, a white handbag, and stockings and shoes which suggested neither economy nor utility completed an ensemble upon which Mrs. Tuke cast an approving eye. Miss Ardmore’s glance at Yvette returned the compliment.
There were more introductions in Cecile’s formal manner. Vivien Ardmore’s left eyebrow rose as she said to Mrs. Tuke:
“Of course I’ve heard of you from Cecile. But I didn’t realise your husband was Harvey Tuke.”
“I am always discovering that he is famous,” Yvette said. “Or do I mean notorious?”
Miss Ardmore waved a hand towards Falcon Mews East.
“Well, won’t you all come in? I live in a queer little hovel, but at least there are some drinks. No, please”—as Mrs. Tuke seemed about to make excuses—“I’d love it if you’d come. I was feeling bored, and it will be a party.”
Mr. Tuke said nothing in a masterly way, and Cecile added her plea to her commanding officer.
“Oh, if you would. . . . I must talk to Vivien, and you and Mr. Tuke know all about it. It’s terribly important, Vivien.”
Miss Ardmore’s eyebrow rose again. Taking acceptance for granted, she began to lead the way with her long stride, and the impromptu party followed her into Falcon Mews East.
This, unlike Falcon Mews West, which had a double connection with the outer world, was a cul-de-sac. Two rows of stablings, six a side, having been converted into garages, had mostly been re-converted into residences for what would no doubt be described (in the new jargon invented to spare everybody’s feelings) as the lower middle income group, for whom the chauffeurs of Mayfair, Knightsbridge and Kensington were already being driven forth, like the Acadians, to seek new homes long before war conditions in general and bombing in particular made large houses still more unpopular. In appearance, Falcon Mews East conformed to type: with its little dwellings painted white, its gaily coloured doors, its pots of flowers and window-boxes and dust-bins, and its cobbled roadway down the middle, it bore an odd resemblance to a Cornish fishing village. Only a few boats and lobster pots were lacking.
No. 10 was a flat above a garage, A stone stair with an iron handrail and worn treads about six inches wide led up to an apple green door. The party followed Miss Ardmore up the steps and through a narrow hall painted the same apple green into a pleasant low room distempered a soft honey colour and equipped with a divan, some comfortable chairs, and a few other pieces of good furniture. There was one big grey rug on the floor, and a large copy of a Provencal landscape by Van Gogh seemed to light up the rather shadowed wall facing the low window. Bookshelves, divided by a fireplace, ran the whole length of the end wall. It was an attractive room, and proof that Miss Ardmore’s good taste was not limited to clothes.
“Charming. Charming,” Mr. Mainward said as he entered, waving a plump hand to emphasise his admiration.
“Sit down, everybody,” said Miss Ardmore. “Except you,” she added, fixing Mr. Mainward with a compelling eye. “You can help me with the drinks. I’ve got gin and lime and a spot of whisky, and, believe me or not, the best part of a bottle of Pernod. A boy in the Air Force brought it. Oh, and there’s some punch. I don’t usually,” she explained as she made for the door, “live with all this liquor about. It’s left over from a party a fortnight ago.”
“But, Vivien——” Gecile Boulanger said.
Miss Ardmore, however, had vanished, Mr. Mainward at her neat heels. Cecile stood frowning, the serious strain she inherited from her French father combining with her present anxieties to revive latent Gallic irritation at the carefree and informal habits of the English. Mrs. Tuke smiled at her, and her fretful face lightened a little.
“Of course, Vivien doesn’t know yet,” she said.
Harvey had turned to examine Miss Ardmore’s books. They revealed a catholic taste. Fiction ranging from Jane Austen through Dickens and Little Women to G. B. Stern, Angela Thirkell and Dorothy Sayers, was mingled untidily with modern verse and plays, Macaulay, Shakespeare (the comedies), books on costume and furniture, some tattered Tauchnitz volumes and assorted literature of travel in Great Britain, France and Spain. The lighter touch seemed to appeal to Miss Ardmore. As his eye ran along the shelves, Mr. Tuke reflected on the immense apparent differences between these three surviving descendants of old Rutland Shearsby, the Victorian importer—Mortimer, a provincial prig, who had no time to read fiction because he was sticking frightful gnomes and frogs about his garden; Gecile, half French, canny, suspicious, without much humour, attracted by a poseur some years younger than herself; and Vivien, easy-mannered, sophisticated,