Chapter 4 Four

No one cared for me in those days more than Rose Waterford.She has both the wit of a man and the eccentricity of a woman.The novels she wrote are very unique, and you can't calm down when you read them.It was at her house that I saw Mrs. Charles Strickland one day.Miss Waterford had a tea party that day, and in one of her little rooms there were more guests than usual.Everyone seemed to be talking to everyone else, and I was the only one sitting there quietly, embarrassed; since the guests were talking about themselves in twos and threes, I was embarrassed to squeeze in someone up.Miss Waterford, a very considerate hostess, noticed my embarrassment and came up to me.

"I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland," she said, "she's a great admirer of your book." "What does she do?" I asked. I know I'm ignorant, and if Strickland is a famous writer, I'd better find out before talking to her. In order to impress me with his answer, Waterford deliberately lowered his eyelids and assumed a serious look. "She takes people to lunch. Just don't be so shy and brag about yourself and she'll treat you to dinner." Russ Waterford behaved in a cynical way.She sees life as an opportunity for her to write fiction, using the world as material for her work.If any of her readers appreciated her talents and entertained her generously, she sometimes entertained them at her home.These people's admiration for writers made her feel both amused and contemptuous, but she dealt with them, fully showing the demeanor of a famous female writer.

I was brought before Mrs. Strickland, and spoke to her for some ten minutes.I didn't find anything special about her except her voice was very pleasant.She has a house in Westminster, facing the unfinished cathedral.Because I also live in that area, the two of us felt closer.To all those who live between the Thames and St James's Park, the Army and Navy Store seems to be the link that unites them.Mrs. Strickland asked for my address, and a few days later I had an invitation from her to lunch. I don't have many dates and I jumped at the invitation.When I arrived at her house a little late, because I was afraid of going too early, I made three circles around the cathedral first.After entering the door, I realized that all the guests had arrived.Waterford was one of them, along with Mrs. Jay, Richard Twining and George Lord.Everyone here is a writer.It was a day in early spring, the weather was fine and everyone was in high spirits.We talked about everything, about everything.Miss Waterford could not make up her mind whether to go to a party in the light gray dress of her younger days, in gray and green, with a daffodil in her hand, or to show a little of the beauty of her older years; Or, put on high heels and a Parisian top.After hesitating for a long time, she only wore a hat.The hat put her in high spirits, and I never heard her speak so harshly of a friend we both knew well.Mrs. Jay knew very well that transgressive words are the soul of wit, and now and then she said something in a voice not higher than a whisper that would have made the white tablecloth blush.Richard Twining spouted outrageous nonsense.George Lord knew that his astonishing quips were well known, and that he had no need to use them, so that each opening of his mouth was nothing more than filling his mouth with food.Mrs. Strickland didn't talk much, but she had a lovely knack for directing the conversation around a common theme; and when there was an awkward moment, she always found a suitable word to keep the conversation going.Mrs. Strickland was thirty-seven years old, tall and plump, but not too fat.She was not beautiful, but she had a pleasant face, which may be owed chiefly to her brown, very kind eyes.Her complexion is not very good, and her black hair is very delicately combed.Among the three women, she is the only one who does not wear makeup, but compared with others, this makes her look more plain and natural.

The dining-room was furnished in the artistic fashion of the time, and was very plain.The white wainscoting was high, and the green paper was covered with etchings of Whistler in elegant black frames.Lines of green curtains printed with peacocks hung straight.The rug, also green, had a picture of white rabbits playing in the rich shade of the trees, suggesting a William Morris influence.White-glazed and blue earthenware stood on the mantelpiece.At that time there must have been five hundred restaurants in London with exactly the same decoration as here, elegant, chic, but a little dull. Miss Waterford was with me when I left Mrs. Strickland's.As the weather was fine, and she was intrigued by her new hat, we decided to take a short walk from St. James's Park.

"It was a good party just now," I said. "You don't think the food is bad, do you? I told her that if she wanted to keep company with writers, she'd have to treat them to good food." "What a wonderful idea you gave her," I replied. "But why does she associate with writers?" Miss Waterford shrugged her shoulders. "She thinks writers are interesting. She wants to be trendy. I think she's a little simple-minded, poor thing, and she thinks us writers are wonderful people. Anyway, she likes to invite us to dinner, and we have nothing against it. I like her for that."

In retrospect, Mrs. Strickland was, in retrospect, the most innocent of those accustomed to the society of men of letters, who, in order to catch their prey, went from the secluded ivory towers of Hampstead. I searched all the way to the shabby and dilapidated studio on China Street.Mrs. Strickland lived in the quiet country when she was young. The books borrowed from the Moody Library not only enabled her to read many romantic stories, but also filled her mind with the image of the big city of London. Romance.She loved reading at heart (a rarity among her kind, most of whom were more interested in writers than in books they wrote, and in painters than in pictures they painted), and she created a fantasy for herself Living in a small world, I feel the freedom that I can't enjoy in daily life.After she got acquainted with the writer, she had a feeling that she had stepped on the stage that she could only watch through the footlights in the past, but this time she stepped on it herself.It seemed to her that her own life was enlarged as she watched these people appear, for she not only entertained them, but broke into their well-locked retreats.She thinks there is nothing wrong with the creed of these people's game life, but she herself does not want to adjust her life according to their way for a minute.The moral and ethical eccentricities of these people, like their strange clothes and absurd remarks, amused her very much, but had no effect on her own principles of conduct.

"Is there a Mr. Strickland?" I asked. "Why not. He works in London. A stockbroker, I suppose. Not very funny." "Are they on good terms?" "They both respect and love each other. If you dine at their house, you'll see him. But she rarely invites people to dinner. He's not very talkative, and he's not at all interested in literature and art." "Why do nice women always marry fools?" "Because smart men don't marry nice women." I could think of no rebuttal, so I turned the conversation away and inquired whether Mrs. Strickland had any children.

"Yes, a boy and a girl. Both are at school." There is no more to say on this topic.We talked about something else.