Inside, the English character of the room is emphasized. There are no
bamboo tables, no skimpy French chairs or Japanese umbrellas; everything
is severely plain and impeccably clean. The wood shines, the table linen
is hard and glossy, the glass is hand cut and heavy, the plate quite
plain and obviously dear. On the white distempered walls are colour
prints after Reynolds, Romney, Gainsborough. All conspires with the
thick carpet to promote silence, even the china and glass, which seem no
more to dare to rattle than if they were used in a men's club.

Victoria settled down in a large chintz-covered arm chair and ordered
tea from a good-looking girl in a dark grey blouse and dress. Visibly a
hockey skirt had not long ago been more natural to her. As she returned
Victoria observed the slim straight lines of her undeveloped figure. She
was half graceful, half gawky, like most young English girls.

'It's been very cold to-day, hasn't it?' said the girl as she set down
bread and butter, then cake and jam sandwiches.

'Very,' Victoria looked at her narrowly. 'I suppose it doesn't matter
much in here, though.'

'Oh, no, we don't notice it.' The girl looked weary for a second. Then
she smiled at Victoria and walked away to a corner where she stood
listlessly.

'Slave, slave.' The words rang through Victoria's head. 'You talk to me
when you're sick of the sight of me. You talk of things you don't care
about. You smile if you feel your face shows you are tired, in the hope
I'll tip you silver instead of copper.'

Victoria looked round the room. It was fairly full, and as Fortesquean
as it was British. The Fortesque tradition is less fluid than the
constitution of the Empire. Its tables shout 'we are old wood'; its cups
say 'we are real porcelain'; and its customers look at one another and
say 'who the devil are you?' Nobody thinks of having tea there unless
they have between one and three thousand a year. It is too quiet for ten
thousand a year or for three pounds a week; it caters for ladies and
gentlemen and freezes out everybody else, regardless of turnover. Thus
its congregation (for its afternoon rite is almost hieratical)
invariably includes a retired colonel, a dowager with a daughter about
to come out, several squiresses who came to Miss Fortesque's as little
girls and are handing on the torch to their own. There is a sprinkling
of women who have been shopping in Bond Street, buying things good but
not showy. As th