Chapter V

by William Somerset Maugham

　　During the summer I met Mrs. Strickland not infrequently.I went now and then to pleasant little luncheons at her flat,and to rather more formidable tea-parties. We took a fancy toone another. I was very young, and perhaps she liked the ideaof guiding my virgin steps on the hard road of letters; whilefor me it was pleasant to have someone I could go to with mysmall troubles, certain of an attentive ear and reasonablecounsel. Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy. It is acharming faculty, but one often abused by those who areconscious of its possession: for there is something ghoulishin the avidity with which they will pounce upon the misfortuneof their friends so that they may exercise their dexterity.It gushes forth like an oil-well, and the sympathetic pour outtheir sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes embarrassingto their victims. There are bosoms on which so many tearshave been shed that I cannot bedew them with mine.Mrs. Strickland used her advantage with tact. You felt that youobliged her by accepting her sympathy. When, in theenthusiasm of my youth, I remarked on this to Rose Waterford,she said:"Milk is very nice, especially with a drop of brandy in it,but the domestic cow is only too glad to be rid of it.A swollen udder is very uncomfortable."Rose Waterford had a blistering tongue. No one could say suchbitter things; on the other hand, no one could do morecharming ones.There was another thing I liked in Mrs. Strickland.She managed her surroundings with elegance. Her flat was alwaysneat and cheerful, gay with flowers, and the chintzes in thedrawing-room, notwithstanding their severe design, were brightand pretty. The meals in the artistic little dining-room werepleasant; the table looked nice, the two maids were trim andcomely; the food was well cooked. It was impossible not tosee that Mrs. Strickland was an excellent housekeeper.And you felt sure that she was an admirable mother. There werephotographs in the drawing-room of her son and daughter.The son -- his name was Robert -- was a boy of sixteen at Rugby;and you saw him in flannels and a cricket cap, and again in atail-coat and a stand-up collar. He had his mother's candidbrow and fine, reflective eyes. He looked clean, healthy, and normal."I don't know that he's very clever," she said one day, when Iwas looking at the photograph, "but I know he's good. He hasa charming character."The daughter was fourteen. Her hair, thick and dark like hermother's, fell over her shoulders in fine profusion, and shehad the same kindly expression and sedate, untroubled eyes."They're both of them the image of you," I said."Yes; I think they are more like me than their father.""Why have you never let me meet him?" I asked."Would you like to?"She smiled, her smile was really very sweet, and she blushed alittle; it was singular that a woman of that age should flushso readily. Perhaps her naivete was her greatest charm."You know, he's not at all literary," she said. "He's aperfect philistine."She said this not disparagingly, but affectionately rather, asthough, by acknowledging the worst about him, she wished toprotect him from the aspersions of her friends."He's on the Stock Exchange, and he's a typical broker.I think he'd bore you to death.""Does he bore you?" I asked."You see, I happen to be his wife. I'm very fond of him."She smiled to cover her shyness, and I fancied she had a fearthat I would make the sort of gibe that such a confessioncould hardly have failed to elicit from Rose Waterford.She hesitated a little. Her eyes grew tender."He doesn't pretend to be a genius. He doesn't even make muchmoney on the Stock Exchange. But he's awfully good and kind.""I think I should like him very much.""I'll ask you to dine with us quietly some time, but mind, you comeat your own risk; don't blame me if you have a very dull evening."