Violet wondered why she did it, why they all
did it, why they ever did it.
Why
did they endure it?
Perhaps
they liked it.
She
plumbed the recesses of her nature and could
find no such affinity. It was ridiculous
that a step, a merest
step, 1 of many, should arrest 1, a fully grown
woman, with such certain challenge.
It
was an affront.
It
was ridiculous.
It
was only so because fashion decreed.
Fashion.
Whence and hence fashion? Violet's mobile lips,
boldly, subtly rouged, smiled. It
was a lucky thing she exercised equanimity. With
modicum of competence she mounted the stairs
and pulled the bell gazing into her murky face
pooled within the oval glass. Several maids
approached her in the hardy bevel. It was
Italian glass she determined
and wished all the same for
her rational, sensible skirt she took walking
into the hills.
"Tea,
Avis," Violet smiled to the maid, "I've come across town for it, and I
would go farther."
"Mum."
Avis was grim.
Avis,
Cleo declared, knew 2 words. Mum was 1 of them.
No
was the other.
"I'll
find my way."
What
a silly thing to say. Violet continued to be
amused at herself and everything and was suitably unconcerned by
this attitude many would find novel not to
say dangerous. It
was also silly because Avis never ushered anyone anywhere, left all to
wander, meander, flounder, or
rocket, as they might. Violet
left her scowling in the shadowed entry and passed through the
cool library smelling of carpet, oiled leather, cold hearth, and
leaves of paper embraced in gleaming walnut
and leaded glass and reached the garden.
She
stepped out into the sun.