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Not the Stanley whom every one saw； not the everyday one； but a timid；
sensitive； innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his prayers；
and who longed to be good。 Stanley was simple。 If he believed in
peopleas he believed in her； for instanceit was with his whole heart。
He could not be disloyal； he could not tell a lie。 And how terribly he
suffered if he thought any oneshewas not being dead straight； dead
sincere with him！ 〃This is too subtle for me！〃 He flung out the words；
but his open； quivering； distraught look was like the look of a trapped
beast。
But the trouble washere Linda felt almost inclined to laugh； though
Heaven knows it was no laughing mattershe saw her Stanley so seldom。
There were glimpses； moments； breathing spaces of calm； but all the rest
of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the habit
of catching on fire； on a ship that got wrecked every day。 And it was
always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger。 Her whole time was
spent in rescuing him； and restoring him； and calming him down； and
listening to his story。 And what was left of her time was spent in the
dread of having children。
Linda frowned； she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her
ankles。 Yes； that was her real grudge against life； that was what she
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The Garden Party
could not understand。 That was the question she asked and asked； and
listened in vain for the answer。 It was all very well to say it was the
common lot of women to bear children。 It wasn't true。 She； for one；
could prove that wrong。 She was broken； made weak； her courage was
gone； through child…bearing。 And what made it doubly hard to bear was；
she did not love her children。 It was useless pretending。 Even if she
had had the strength she never would have nursed and played with the
little girls。 No； it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through and
through on each of those awful journeys； she had no warmth left to give
them。 As to the boy well； thank Heaven； mother had taken him； he was
mother's； or Beryl's； or anybody's who wanted him。 She had hardly held
him in her arms。 She was so indifferent about him that as he lay
there。。。Linda glanced down。
The boy had turned over。 He lay facing her； and he was no longer
asleep。 His dark…blue； baby eyes were open； he looked as though he was
peeping at his mother。 And suddenly his face dimpled； it broke into a
wide； toothless smile； a perfect beam； no less。
〃I'm here！〃 that happy smile seemed to say。 〃Why don't you like
me？〃
There was something so quaint； so unexpected about that smile that
Linda smiled herself。 But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly；
〃I don't like babies。〃
〃Don't like babies？〃 The boy couldn't believe her。 〃Don't like me？
〃 He waved his arms foolishly at his mother。
Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass。
〃Why do you keep on smiling？〃 she said severely。 〃If you knew
what I was thinking about； you wouldn't。〃
But he only squeezed up his eyes； slyly； and rolled his head on the
pillow。 He didn't believe a word she said。
〃We know all about that！〃 smiled the boy。
Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature。。。Ah no；
be sincere。 That was not what she felt； it was something far different； it
was something so new； so。。。The tears danced in her eyes； she breathed in a
small whisper to the boy； 〃Hallo； my funny！〃
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The Garden Party
But by now the boy had forgotten his mother。 He was serious again。
Something pink； something soft waved in front of him。 He made a grab
at it and it immediately disappeared。 But when he lay back； another； like
the first； appeared。 This time he determined to catch it。 He made a
tremendous effort and rolled right over。
Chapter 1。VII。
The tide was out； the beach was deserted； lazily flopped the warm sea。
The sun beat down； beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand； baking the
grey and blue and black and white…veined pebbles。 It sucked up the little
drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells； it bleached the
pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the sand…hills。
Nothing seemed to move but the small sand…hoppers。 Pit…pit…pit！ They
were never still。
Over there on the weed…hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy
beasts come down to the water to drink； the sunlight seemed to spin like a
silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools。 They danced； they
quivered； and minute ripples laved the porous shores。 Looking down；
bending over； each pool was like a lake with pink and blue houses
clustered on the shores； and oh！ the vast mountainous country behind
those housesthe ravines； the passes； the dangerous creeks and fearful
tracks that led to the water's edge。 Underneath waved the sea…forest
pink thread…like trees； velvet anemones； and orange berry…spotted weeds。
Now a stone on the bottom moved； rocked； and there was a glimpse of a
black feeler； now a thread…like creature wavered by and was lost。
Something was happening to the pink； waving trees； they were changing
to a cold moonlight blue。 And now there sounded the faintest 〃plop。〃
Who made that sound？ What was going on down there？ And how
strong； how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun。。。
The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony。
Over the verandas； prone on the paddock； flung over the fences； there
were exhausted…looking bathing…dresses and rough striped towels。 Each
back window seemed to have a pair of sand…shoes on the sill and some
lumps of rock or a bucket or a collect