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horrific belongings having been dropped into the dustbin. Who
does he think is going to provide Carlotta with food and shelter
and a pink dress? What does he imagine is to become of the poor
waif? In all my life I have never heard of a more cynical
suicide.
I have walked about for hours, laughing and cursing and kicking
the binding loose of my precious Muratori. I have wondered
whether the universe or I were mad. For there is one thing that
is clear to meCarlotta is here, and here Carlotta must remain.
Devastating though it be to the wellordered quietude of my life,
I must adopt Carlotta.
There is no way out of it.
Shall I be accused of harbouring a bevy of odalisques at No. 20
Lingfield Terrace? Calumny and Exaggeration walk abroad, arm in
arm, even on the north side of Regent's Park. If they had spied
Carlotta at my window this morning, they would have looked in for
afternoon tea at my Aunt Jessica's and have waylaid Mrs. Ralph
Ordeyne outside the Oratory. The question is: Shall Truth
anticipate them? I think not. Every family has its
irrepressible, impossible, unpractical member, its _enfant
terrible_, who is forever doing the wrong thing with the best
intentions. Truth is the _enfant terrible_ of the Virtues. Some
times it puts them to the blush and throws them into confusion;
at others it blusters like a blatant liar; at others, again, it
stutters and stammers like a detected thief. There is no knowing
how Truth may behave, so I shall not let it visit my relations.
I must confess, however, that I feared the possible passing by of
the two decrepit cronies, when Carlotta stood at my open French
window this morning. She is really indecently beautiful. She
was wearing a deep red silk peignoir, open at the throat,
unashamedly Parisian, which clung to every salient curve of her
figure. I wondered where, in the name of morality, she had
procured the garment. I learned later that it was the joy and
pride of Antoinette's existence; for once, in the days long ago,
when she was _femme de chambre_ to a luminary of the cafes
concerts, it had met around her waist. She had treasured the
castoff finery of this burnedout starshe beamed in the
seventiesfor all these years, and now its immortal devilry
transfigured Carlotta. She was also washed specklessly clean.
An aroma that no soap or artificial perfume could give disengaged
itself from her as she moved. Her goldbronze hair was superbly
ordered. I noticed her arms which the sleeves of the gay garment
left bare to the elbows; the skin was like satin. _Et sa peau!

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