sumer of fancy groceries, greens, or dairy products.
“Two servants,” grumbled Mike, selecting romaine for my order. “A big man who goes around in a fur coat like a walking bear. And an old woman with bare feet, signorina. Bare feet!”
PART 4
I told Portia when I got home (she came out at my entrance, heavy-eyed from loss of sleep) about Mike’s complaints, merely as indicative of the attitude of the tradespeople, and as a matter of humorous interest. To my surprize she appeared to take it seriously, questioning me about the item of the meat and the lack of other staples such as salt and sugar with a pointed interest that roused my curiosity.
Fu Sing brought in a tray with a light salad and a pot of tea, and Portia ordered it taken into the library, where she let herself down wearily upon a pile of cushions, her odd breakfast on a tabouret in front of her.
“I wish I were a man,” she remarked, poking aimlessly at the salad. “I mean, of course, a man like Mr. Differdale. It is very hard for a woman, especially for me, feeling as I do about Owen, to undertake what I fear must be undertaken, now that the Princess Irma has actually come to stay in Meadowland. I doubt my own powers. I fear my own impulses. I would give anything—anything—for a talk with him.”
I knew whom she meant by that “him”; she was referring to the man who had given her his name that he might carry on his work uninterruptedly, a thing that I could not help regarding as a stupendous piece of egotism, no matter what my niece thought about it.
“You see,” went on Portia, her smooth brow crinkling a bit as she looked up to meet my eyes with frank sincerity, “people will think I’m jealous, and Aunt Sophie, you must believe me with all your heart when I tell you I’m not jealous. That is, not as people interpret jealousy. No, if Owen can be happier with another woman, I would be the first to wish him joy. I love him enough for that. But—oh, it must not be Irma Andreyevna Tchernova! No, no!”
The sudden passion in her voice, the actual horror that now writhed across her tortured face, startled me.
“Why, Portia, my dear! Whatever put the princess into your mind as a rival?” I said stupidly.
She stared at me for a minute without speaking.
“It’s my opinion that the princess is just an idle woman who is looking for a flirtation to pass away the time. She’s the type of woman who wants a good-looking man always hanging about her, Portia. I don’t think she’s really interested in Owen.”
“Oh, these unutterably narrowminded Meadowlawn people!” cried my niece, suddenly veering about in another direction. “If only they were not so contemptibly small-minded! If they would only not believe me disrespectful to Mr. Differdale’s memory, I should be free to let Owen put his ring on my finger. Then—perhaps—that woman—”
“My dear Portia, why don’t you tell Owen that you are willing to be engaged to him, privately, until such time as the proprieties would consider it good form to announce the engagement publicly?”
“Aunt Sophie! If I am going to be engaged to Owen, I’m not going to hide it from the world as if I were ashamed of our love. I won’t carry on a clandestine love affair. No, no! There ought to be some other way.”
