'I'm sorry,' said Rosa. 'If it would be easier, I could go away and come again.' She cursed herself for not having thought to bring a visiting-card.

'Oh, it doesn't matter!' said Miss Foy cheerfully. 'She'll be amused to see you. You'd better go straight up. Come in, my dear; that's right.'

Miss Foy ushered Rosa in, and as the door closed behind her they were plunged into almost complete darkness. Rosa could descry various very large objects cl.u.s.tered round the walls, while overhead there appeared to be a number of plants which leaned over the scene, rustling and breathing. In the background there was a curious moaning sound, as if some sort of machine were working.

'You must forgive me if I don't announce you,' said Miss Foy.' She hates to see me when I'm washing up. The drawingroom is in the front on the first floor. You'll probably hear her singing, and that will guide you. Don't be nervous, my dear. And,' Miss Foy drew Rosa close to her and lowered her voice, 'don't mind the funny things she says, will you, she only says them to shock people, and she doesn't really mean them, you know.'

With that, Miss Foy abruptly vanished into the darkness, leaving Rosa to find her way upstairs. She began to mount; and as she went, she became aware that the curious sound which had met her as she entered and which had continued throughout her conversation with Miss Foy was in fact made by a human voice. This sound, as Rosa approached it, revealed itself as a deep and not unpleasant voice, which was singing in an oddly monotonous manner. Filled with curiosity about what she was going to see, Rosa knocked on the drawingroom door. There was no reply, and the singing continued. So she knocked again, more loudly, and then walked in.

She found herself in a large, bright, untidy, over-furnished drawingroom, amid whose litter of objects her dazzled eyes could at first descry no human form. Then she became aware of a pair of stout masculine-looking shoes, whose soles, high upon the arm of an enormous sofa, were pointing towards her. The owner of the shoes and the voice, which continued to sing, evidently lay out of sight upon the sofa. Rosa walked round until she was broadside on to the sofa, and there was revealed a tall grey-haired woman, dressed in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, who lay prostrate with her feet raised well above her head, while beside her upon the floor stood a champagne bottle and a gla.s.s. As Rosa came into sight, the owner of the shoes turned upon her a face of considerable power, from whose very dry, heavily powdered and apparently unwrinkled expanse two dark brown eyes looked serenely out.

'You're just in time for the row in the hall,' said Mrs Wingfield.

'I beg your pardon?' said Rosa.

'I said you're just in time for the row in the hall,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'It's simply an expression. Before your day, I expect. Fashions in idiom change so rapidly.' Mrs Wingfield spoke in a deep lazy voice, which was not the voice of a very old woman.

'I'm so sorry to walk in unannounced,' said Rosa, and then regretted this remark, which seemed to reflect on Miss Foy.

'I suppose the old trout let you in,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'That's all right. She's washing up. Have some champagne. It's the only thing I can drink now that doesn't upset my stomach. Sorry there's only one gla.s.s.'

With surprising energy she swung her legs down and poured out some champagne, which she handed to Rosa. Then she swung her legs back into their original position and began to drone, 'In the twi - twi - twilight, out in the beau - ti -ful twilight. I've never forgotten a song that I heard before 1910 and never remembered one that I heard since,' she explained to Rosa.

'You have not, in my view, missed much,' said Rosa politely. She had not yet got the wavelength of Mrs Wingfield, and was trying to move carefully.

'Who the h.e.l.l are you, anyway?' said Mr Wingfield. 'This is just like this b.l.o.o.d.y age. People walk into your drawingroom without any by-your-leave, and before you know where you are they're drinking your champagne, and you don't know them from Adam.'

Rosa was about to announce her ident.i.ty when Mrs Wingfield cried out, 'Don't tell me! Let me guess!' She turned her head towards Rosa, and her two dark eyes, which appeared vertically one over the other above the plump cushions of the sofa, surveyed her critically.

'Would you mind showing me your profile?' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Thank you. Yes, I thought so. You are Miss Keepe, Margaret Richardson's daughter, and you live on the other side of the square.'

'That's right,' said Rosa. 'We met once, a long time ago, when I was a child. You've probably forgotten.'

'I haven't forgotten at all,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not as senile as you evidently imagine. We met at Wimbledon. You must have been about eight, and your manners were shocking, even then. But I'm d.a.m.ned if I can recall your Christian name.'

'Rosa.'

'Ah, yes,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Your mother was an absolute bolshy. But she'd have had her bellyful of it by now if she'd lived.'

Rosa flushed with annoyance and was about to reply when Mrs Wingfield cried, 'Don't be angry! I adored your mother. I probably appreciated her far better than you did. I must say I wondered when you'd have the courtesy to call on me. I suppose you want some money, though; that's the only reason why anyone calls on me nowadays. Well, you can't have any. Hasn't anyone told you? I'm an old skinflint. But you can stay and talk to me till I go to bed. You may have precious few manners, but you can't walk out as soon as you've come, and now I've got you here I'm going to keep you. What do I care if you never come again? Have some champagne.'

Rosa, who was poised between annoyance, amus.e.m.e.nt, and despair, said 'Thank you', and held out the gla.s.s.

'Oh, you want some more, do you?' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Well, give me back the gla.s.s. You can drink it out of a cup. There's one left over there, I think, in the cabinet.'

Rosa went over to the cabinet, picking her way between the poufs, ha.s.socks, cushions, footstools, and occasional tables with which the floor was strewn in the interstices of the larger pieces of furniture. She took down a very beautiful Dresden cup and brought it back to Mrs Wingfield. The latter had meanwhile filled and emptied the champagne gla.s.s with startling rapidity and was filling it for herself once again, her head dangling awkwardly over the edge of the sofa.

'You'd better wipe it with your hanky,' she said, as Rosa held out the cup. 'It hasn't been dusted for two or three reigns.' This appeared to be true. Rosa rubbed her handkerchief over it, and Mrs Wingfield poured in the remnants of the champagne.

'Not much left, I'm afraid,' she said, 'and this is the last bottle. Well, I'm a liar, it's not the last bottle, I only mean it's the last you'll get.'

'It's a beautiful cup,' said Rosa politely.

'Yes, it's sweet, isn't it,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'I've got some lovely stuff here, only you can't see it, there's such a mess. I must get the old trout to show you round some time. Just now she's washing up. I only let her wash up once in three weeks. It takes that long for us to work through all our china. I hate Foy dashing away after a meal to wash up, it destroys my digestion. So we wait till there's no china left and then Foy makes a day of it.'

'I see. What a sensible arrangement,' said Rosa.

'It's not a sensible arrangement,' said Mrs Wingfield, 'but it's the arrangement we've adopted.'

At that moment Miss Foy came into the room carrying a champagne gla.s.s. 'I thought you might want another gla.s.s,' she said.

'You thought right,' said Mrs Wingfield, 'but a bit late in the day, as usual. Don't go away, you fool. Leave the gla.s.s, now you've brought it. You can take that cup down, I don't know how we overlooked it. Have you got any drink left, girl? Well, pour it into the gla.s.s, and give Foy the cup to take away. That's right.'

Miss Foy turned to go. 'By the way, Foy,' Mrs Wingfield shouted after her, 'this is Rosa Keepe.'

Miss Foy came running back, her pale eyes glistening with excitement. 'Why, Miss Rosa,' she cried, 'what a pleasure this is, and what an honour!'

'Honour my foot,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'It's Miss Keepe, not her mother.'

'I remember your mother well,' said Miss Foy. 'I often heard her speak in the halls round Holborn and Kingsway. What a speaker she was! Of course, I was very young then.'

'Not so d.a.m.n young,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'How old do you think Foy is?' she asked Rosa.

Rosa looked embarra.s.sed. 'I'm not very clever at guessing people's ages,' she said coldly.

'Look at her!' said Mrs Wingfield, 'she's putting me in my place! Well, make a guess. But take a good look first. She's like an old mop, isn't she? Have you ever seen a human being look more like an old mop? And look at her legs. Lift your skirt up, Foy. They've got no shape at all. They're like two posts. Have you ever seen anyone with legs more like a couple of posts?'

'Don't you mind her, Miss Rosa,' said Miss Foy, who appeared to be fairly used to this. 'She doesn't mean it.'

'Don't I just mean it!' cried Mrs Wingfield with pa.s.sion. She swung her legs down again with the same energetic gesture and sat pointing at Miss Foy, who now turned a shade paler under her grey. 'Look at her hair. Did you ever see such a frizz? It shows one of her attacks is coming on. Mad people's hair always stand up like that. They say a lunatic is a lunatic to his fingers' ends.'

'Don't!' said Miss Foy. 'Please stop it! You're giving me the creeps.' She turned and fled from the room.

'What a frump!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'She thinks I'm serious. I was much jollier before I met Foy. All the same, if it wasn't for her I'd be sunning myself in the porch of some d.a.m.ned hotel. Would you say old Foy was a virgin?'

'I have absolutely no opinion on the subject,' said Rosa savagely, who was very much disapproving of this persecution of Miss Foy. She had by now decided that Mrs Wingfield was by no means mad.

'What do you mean, you've no opinion?' said Mrs Wingfield. 'You must think something about it, one way or the other!'

'I mean,' said Rosa, 'that I think you've been very rude to Miss Foy.'

'Well, why the h.e.l.l don't you say what you mean?' said Mrs Wingfield. 'I'm not a thought-reader. I'll tell you something. Of course you think she's a virgin. Everyone does. And I'll tell you something else. She isn't! You'd be surprised. But I'll tell you all that some other time. Could you go to that cupboard and get out another bottle of champagne? That's right. Do you know how to open a bottle of champagne? Well, open that one, and don't let it spurt all over the furniture.'

Mrs Wingfield was sitting up now, her trousered legs st.u.r.dily apart, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa. As Rosa poured her out a gla.s.s of champagne, she was struck by the extraordinary dry texture of her face, which seen at close quarters had an alarmingly artificial appearance. The surface was more like smooth slightly dusty cardboard than like skin. In the midst of this desert the two eyes gleamed alarmingly, like weedy pools. Rosa felt almost terror at the thought that if those eyes were ever to spill a tear it would surely cut a strange furrow in the dry powdery surface, revealing heaven knew what beneath. There was a sweet dusty smell, as of old linen preserved in lavender.

'You're thinking,' said Mrs Wingfield, 'that I'm a fine one to talk about age. I make no secret of my age. I'm eighty-three. You think I've got an enamelled face, like Queen What's-her-name. Would you like to see a picture of me when I was twenty? Pa.s.s me that alb.u.m.' Rosa pa.s.sed over a thick book with a red velvet cover which lay amid a miscellany of vases and bra.s.s animals on top of a nearby piano.

'There I am,' said Mrs Wingfield.

Rosa looked at the picture of a proud sweet-faced girl with a cloud of dark hair and glowing dark eyes under an enormous hat. 'You were beautiful,' said Rosa. 'You're not terribly unlike this now,' she said seriously. She suddenly saw, as in a vision, the young face looking through Mrs Wingfield's old one. It was startling.

'You're a little flatterer,' said Mrs Wingfield, 'and a flatterer is a liar. That's not like your mother. She would never have flattered anybody. But then, of course, you want to get something out of me. There's me again a bit later.'

She turned the page, and Rosa saw a confused picture of a tall woman in an ankle-length skirt standing with her arms held out in an unnatural position, with a crowd gathered round her. 'That was when I chained myself to the railings at Wellington Barracks. I've still got a mark on my wrist from that day.' She showed Rosa a small red mark on her left wrist.

'Really!' said Rosa.

'Do you believe me?' asked Mrs Wingfield, and then laughed fiendishly. 'Never mind! Look, here I am being arrested at Ascot. I got those photos from the newspapers. They always sent a polite man round next day to ask if we wanted pictures. Your mother must have had quite a collection.'

'Yes, she had,' said Rosa. 'I remember one of her and you throwing leaflets about in a theatre.'

'That's right!' said Mrs Wingfield, her eyes kindling. 'It was Covent Garden. II Trovatore. Royalty was present. You clever little thing, you're working hard for whatever it is you want!' She turned the page again. 'There's a picture of me talking to Bernard Shaw.'

Rosa studied the picture respectfully. 'Old Wingfield was jealous about me and Bernard,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'That was before I crowned the old blighter - old Wingfield I mean. I killed him with an axe, you know. He needn't have minded about Bernard. Him I despised, the conceited a.s.s. Left his money to Spelling Reform! And now you're wondering,' Mrs Wingfield went on, 'what I'm going to leave my money to! Well, I shan't tell you. Old Foy thinks she's going to get it, but I haven't left her a penny!' Mrs Wingfield cackled and threw herself sideways among the cushions.

Rosa backed away slightly and found herself a chair. She didn't want the situation to get out of hand.

'And don't you say to me,' Mrs Wingfield went on rather breathlessly, 'that I needn't care what happens to my money when I'm gone. I won't care then, but I care now. After all, we all live in the future, even if it's a future where we aren't to be found anywhere upon the earth. We all live in the future, so long as we live at all, which in my case won't be much longer. Another few months and they'll be digging in the bureau looking for the will. Did you believe what I said just now?'

'What?' asked Rosa. She felt a growing distress for Mrs Wingfield, who was beginning to look a little wild-eyed.

'About how I coshed old codger Wingfield, with an axe!'

'No!' said Rosa.

'How right you were!' cried Mrs Wingfield, beginning to laugh and cough. 'When people are as old as I am they get to be terrible liars! I didn't cosh him with an axe, I broke his head open with a flat-iron!' She nearly choked herself laughing.

'Mrs Wingfield, please!' said Rosa. 'Please be calm.'

'I'm perfectly calm,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'And as for what you think of me, do you imagine I care? l.u.s.t and rage! l.u.s.t and rage, as the poet says! When you're as old as me you begin to lose your ident.i.ty. What's the difference between me and an old soak in the Bayswater Road, except the memories that we trail behind us? And what are they? Old tales that n.o.body wants to hear and we scarcely believe in ourselves. Old stories and photographs. And don't tell me the old soak is a better woman. That's what your mother would have said. I haven't forgotten what a bolshy she was!'

'Please, Mrs Wingfield,' said Rosa, who felt that she had indeed let the situation get out of hand. 'I'm sorry, perhaps I've stayed too long, and -'

'You certainly have!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'You've been here for an hour and you haven't even had enough s.p.u.n.k to say why you've come. Out with it!'

'I came to consult you on a matter of business,' Rosa began.

'I knew it was money!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Well, I've told you, you can't have any. And now you can go. I'm tired.'

'I'm sorry!' said Rosa. She was red with mingled distress and annoyance. She picked up her coat. 'I'll come back if I may another day.'

'You'll do nothing of the sort!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Another day I may be underground. I'm dying with curiosity to know what you want. I shan't sleep tonight unless you tell me. Sit down, girl, and relax. I'm not as mad as I seem.'

Rosa sat down again and looked doubtfully at her hostess. 'It's about the Artemis,' she said. She was feeling tired too.

'The what?' asked Mrs Wingfield.

'The Artemis,' said Rosa. 'It's a periodical.'

'Oh, you mean the Artemis' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Of course. You p.r.o.nounce it so oddly. Well, what about it?'

'It needs money,' said Rosa. She thought she had better be simple. 'Unless we get some financial help, we shall have to close down. I thought you might perhaps be willing to make a contribution. You are one of the major shareholders.'

'I know that,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Don't treat me as if I were something out of the Pyramids. I suppose you run the thing youself?'

'Well, not exactly,' said Rosa. 'In fact, my young brother runs it.'

'Your young brother!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'A fair-haired ninny, if I remember. Resembled your father. Why Maggie ever married him was beyond us all. I saw your brother a few years ago at Oxford. Yes, I got as far as Oxford. I went to a college play. Someone pointed him out to me. He was acting. He was supposed to be some sort of gentleman. It was Shakespeare. He had three lines to say, and even then he forgot one of them. So you want me to rescue the Artemis to be a plaything for your brother? You're going to be disappointed, Miss Keepe.'

'My brother is a perfectly competent editor,' said Rosa. 'All he lacks is funds. But in any case that isn't the point. What is urgent is to prevent the Artemis from going bankrupt.'

'Well, why come to me?' asked Mrs Wingfield. 'Why don't you auction it in Fleet Street?'

It was by now abundantly clear to Rosa that Mrs Wingfield was indeed not something out of the Pyramids. She smiled faintly. 'No one in Fleet Street wants to buy it just now,' she said; 'at least not anyone to whom we wish to sell it.'

'So you've had an offer?' said Mrs Wingfield. She was leaning forward, her bright liquid eyes popping out slightly as she stared at Rosa. 'Cards on the table!'

'Yes,' said Rosa, 'we've had an offer from Mischa Fox. But we don't want to have to accept it. We would prefer the Artemis to remain independent. That would be better than selling out to anyone. But if we sell to Fox he will change the character of the magazine completely.'

'Your brother's probably changed it already, for all I know,' said Mrs Wingfield.

'You receive a free copy every month,' said Rosa coldly.

'Do I?' said Mrs Wingfield. 'I wonder what happens to it. Foy must scoff it up in her room. Well, why come to me with this tale of woe? Do you imagine I care whether this Fox or the Devil himself buys the Artemis? Why don't you try Ada Carrington-Morris? She still has ideals. I'm too old. l.u.s.t and rage, l.u.s.t and rage, Miss Keepe!'

Rosa could see that Mrs Wingfield was saying this simply to see how she would react. 'We don't want to be helped by Mrs Carrington-Morris,' she said coolly. 'We want to be helped by you.'

'More flattery!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Here, have some champagne, I quite forgot to offer you any, or would you rather have some tea?'

'Don't bother about the tea,' said Rosa. 'I'll drink champagne.'

'She says don't bother about the tea, she'll drink champagne!' cried Mrs Wingfield. 'Do you realize how much this champagne costs a bottle? And the tea we use is elevenpence a quarter. Ring for Foy and ask for tea! I told you I was a skinflint!'

'All I mean,' said Rosa desperately, 'is please don't bother. I don't really want either tea or champagne.'

'So you've been drinking my champagne without really wanting it, have you!' cried Mrs Wingfield.

'I do beg you,' said Rosa, 'to consider this matter of the Artemis. There's a shareholders' meeting in a week's time and a decision ought to be reached before then. My brother has given a great deal of work to the periodical. He receives no salary, and in fact he's put savings of his own into keeping it alive. Unless we can get a substantial sum of money from somewhere, I can't honestly advise him against selling out to Fox. The Artemis is deeply in debt.'

'I thought it was a matter of closing down, not of selling out,' said Mrs Wingfield.

'Whichever it is,' said Rosa, 'it means the end of the Artemis as we know it, the periodical that was founded by my mother and yourself.'

'Flattery!' said Mrs Wingfield. 'Soft soap! Why should it gratify me now to be a.s.sociated with that bolshy? I can see you want to look after your brother. A natural reaction. Even animals have it. As for this man Fox, is he a friend of yours?'

Rosa looked sharply into Mrs Wingfield's dewy intelligent eyes. 'No,' she said.

'I've heard of him,' said Mrs Wingfield. 'He's a bit of a press lord and general mischief-maker, isn't he?'