Extract 1

Louis stood just inside the entrance, watching the shadows from the flickering torches dance on the
walls. This was the first time he'd been inside the ancient catacombs and the situation felt unnatural.
He could see Relic begin to make her way through the narrow tunnels, and despite his hesitation,
something - he didn't know what - made him trust her. Somehow, she was the key to this. He started
to follow her.

Darkparis. How did he end up here - and why?

He was bored. Bored with work, bored with home, bored with life. Louis was 17 years old and living in
a small apartment in northern Paris. That much sounded like a dream, but Louis had soon discovered
how dull life in the world beyond childhood could be. His job in the local supermarket hardly filled him
with joy. Yes, he was bored. Lonely, actually. So when a dark-haired girl he'd never met before had
approached him as he left work the previous day and asked him how to find the entrance to the
catacombs, he was pleased to have a brief distraction.

'I'll show you, he found himself saying. 'I'm heading that way.

The girl smiled and introduced herself as she began walking alongside him. 'I'm Relic, she said.

As they navigated the back streets of Paris, Louis found himself in an easy conversation with Relic. She
had a kind face and seemed a little too naïve to live in the city. At the same time, though, there was
something odd about her - as if she belonged to another time.

They arrived at the catacombs quicker than he would have liked. 'Thanks, Louis, Relic said, turning
towards the entrance. And it flashed through Louis's mind that he had never told her his name. 'By
the way, The Doorkeeper thinks you're the one. Be back here at nine o'clock tomorrow night!

With that, she was gone.

But he knew he'd be there the following evening.

Extract 2
And so here he was, in Darkparis, following Relic through the tunnels. They seemed to shift... was that
real, or just an effect caused by the flaming torches and low ceilings?

It wasn't long before they came to The Fork, where the tunnel split three ways. There, in the yellow
light from the torch flames, stood The Doorkeeper. As he spoke, his words rebounded off the walls.

'And so young Louis visits us!' he declared. 'And what is he discovering I wonder? He is discovering
Darkparis - a world that few see, but a world which sees many!"

Louis and Relic said nothing, and the silence was filled with the unpleasant sound of an animal
scurrying along the tunnel.

'Paris is for the fearful, boomed The Doorkeeper, 'but Darkparis is for the fearless.

You do know there is no going back to your old life, don't you, Louis? You know you must prove
yourself, don't you, Louis? I don't think you are weak, but I'm not yet sure if you are strong. Or strong
enough, at least!
A low mist was creeping into the tunnel.

'I'm not weak, responded Louis, trying to hide the quiver in his voice.

'Let us see, continued The Doorkeeper, his eyes piercing Louis.

'We define ourselves through the choices we make, even when the mist of indecision lingers!

'Welcome to... The Test!' proclaimed the Doorkeeper.

There was a split second of inaction, and then...

They were off! Relic disappeared down one tunnel and The Doorkeeper down another. The third
tunnel stood there, beckoning Louis.

He was deep in Darkparis; buried in the catacombs, with their foul-smelling passageways and strange
mist.

Which way now? Go on or go home?

Extract 1

It was cold, that day she first took flight, and the snow lay thick enough to hide a cat in.
She wore her father's coat. It came down past her knees, and she had rolled the sleeves up, so they
hung at her wrist in a great roll of wool. The coat had once been a deep, cocoa-bean brown, but now
it was the colour of an elderly shoe. It smelt, very slightly, of horses and woodsmoke.

The wind was fierce that day. It was often windy in winter at the top of the mountain; birds got blown
backwards up the cliff edge, reverse-somersaulting through the sky, their wings shedding feathers like
confetti. Seagulls blew into the house, sometimes right into her lap as she sat curled up in the corner,
wrapped in rugs, reading by the firelight. Suddenly finding that you had an irate seagull as a bookmark
was not, Odile thought, ideal, but her grandfather would throw a blanket over them and stomp out
into the night with the bird bundled into his arms.

'Always be polite to birds,' he would say. 'They know more than they let on.'

The house was built into the rock of the mountain, and the door was polished stone. Her grandfather
had lived on the mountaintop all his life. Odile had lived with him since she was a baby. She had
nobody else. In the house, the fire burned all the year round. 'Keep the fire as hot as the human
heart,' said her grandfather, his jaw stern. 'Never let it go out'

That day, she had pulled her father's coat around her, and set out. The wind caught the coat as she
walked down the mountain path, billowing it out behind her like a sail. It had no buttons left, so she
took a corner of the coat in each fist and held her arms stiff at her side. She began to run, her hair
blowing in her eyes and mouth, down the hill.

The wind caught her coat and tossed her upwards. Odile felt the sudden swoop of gravity undone.
It lasted only a second. She screamed, pulling her coat up over her face, and dropped to the ground
again, landing on her hands and knees in the snow. Her breathing stopped. Though she had barely
fallen two feet, she felt winded, gasping and choking for air.

'I flew, she whispered. Or had she perhaps just tripped and fallen more extravagantly than usual? She
had to be sure.
Odile rubbed some snow into her eyes to make sure she was awake. She pulled a twig from a tree,
brushed the frost from it and used it to pin her hair out of her eyes. She put on her gloves.

She stretched out the comers of her coat. She began to run, downhill, her feet kicking up a spray of
snow.

The coat billowed out behind her. Her breath misted the air in front of her.

And Odile flew.

Extract 2

Without another word, she pulled on her boots and coat and kissed her grandfather's cheek. He
waved her away; his skin was colder than usual.

Odile walked as far as the paths would take her, clapping her hands together in front and behind her
back to keep them warm; and then she climbed. It was more of a scramble, really, around the edge of
the mountain, but there were places where the ground cut away and dropped to a blur below. She
did not fly: the wind might drop at any moment, and she didn't like the idea of so much gravity at
once.

The first hint that something was wrong was the smell. Odile sniffed. There were seven layers of
scent, none of them good: a between-the-toe smell, a week-old-fish smell, an unbrushed-tooth smell;
a jackdaw's breath, a cat's sick pool, a burnt furball and a sailor's earwax.

'Kraiks,' she whispered.

She looked up, up the edge of the mountainside. She could see nothing only mist, and branches
stretching like arms across the rocks. But a voice came down, thin and quiet.

'Where are you going, little girl?'

Odile said nothing. She set her jaw, and kept climbing, heading sideways.

THE GARDEN PARTY (1921)

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if
they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of
light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the
lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been
seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only
flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.
Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night, the green bushes bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee,
*Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year.
Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest."
But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and
she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the
butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.
"You'll have to go, Laura, you're the artistic one."
Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's so delicious to have an excuse for
eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to arrange things, she always felt she could do it so
much better than anybody else.
Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves
covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive,
Laura wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and
she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-
sighted as she came up to them.
"Good moming," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded so fearfully affected that she
was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl, "Oh-er-have you come-is it about the marquee?"
"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag,
knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her. "That's about it."
His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes he had, small, but such a dark
blue! And now she looked at the others, they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile
seemed to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn't mention
the moming, she must be business-like. The marquee.
"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"
And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold the bread-and-butter. They tumed,
they stared in the direction. A little fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.
"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like a marquee," and he
turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want to put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the
eye, if you follow me."
Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite respectful of a workman to
talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she did quite follow him.
"A comer of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to be in one corner."
"Hm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. He was pale. He had a haggard
look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-court. What was he thinking?
"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if the band was quite
small. But the tall fellow interrupted.
"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. That'll do fine."
Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were so lovely, with their
broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing
on a desert island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour.
Must they be hidden by a marquee?
They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for the place. Only the tall
fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose
and snuffed up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her wonder
at him caring for things like that-caring for. the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew
would have done such a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why
couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came
to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like these.
It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the back of an envelope, something
that was to be looped up or left to hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she
didn't feel them. Not a bit, not an atom... And now there came the chock-chock of wooden hammers.
Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right there, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it,
the-the-Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how
she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the
little drawing. She felt just like a work-girl
"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from the house.
"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, across the veranda, and into
the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.
"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at my coat before this afternoon. See if
it wants pressing."
"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laurie and gave him a small, quick
squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" gasped Laura.
"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister too, and gave her a gentle
push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl,"
The telephone. "Yes, yes, oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of
course. It will only be a very scratch meal-just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and
what's left over, Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly should. One moment-hold
the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat back. "What, mother? Can't hear."
Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that sweet hat she had on last
Sunday."
"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One o'clock. Bye-bye."
Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep breath, stretched and let them
fall "Huh," she sighed, and the moment after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the
doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices.
The green haize door that led to the kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thad. And
now there came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff
castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air always like this? Little faint winds were
playing chase, in at the tops of the windows, out at the doors, And there were two tiny spots of sun,
one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the
one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it.
The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's print skirt on the stairs A man's
voice murmured, Sadie answered, careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. 1'11 ask Mrs Sheridan."
"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.
"It's the florist, Miss Laura."
It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots of pink lilies. No
other kind, Nothing but lilies canna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly
alive on bright crimson stems.
"O-ch, Sadiel" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan, She crouched down as if to warm
herself at that blaze of lilies, she felt they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast.
"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother."
But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.
"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm.
"I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in
my life I shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse."
"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist's man
was still outside at his van. She put her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit
her mother's ear.
"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't do that. Here's the man."
He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.
"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't
you agree, Laura?"
"Oh, I do, mother."
In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in moving the piano.
"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything out of the room except the
chairs, don't you think?"
"Quite."
"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the
carpet and one moment, Hans Jose loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her.
She always made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and Miss Laura to
come here at once.
"Very good, Miss Jose."
She tumed to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in case I'm asked to sing this
afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is Weary."
Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-tal The piano burst out so passionately that Jose's face changed. She clasped her
hands, She looked mournfully and enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in.
"This Life is Wee-ary,
A Tear-a Sigh A Love that Chan-ges, This Life is Wee-ary, A Tear-a Sigh A Love that Changes, And
then... Good-bye!"
But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded more desperate than ever, her face
broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile.
"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.
"This Life is Wee-ary, Hope comes to Die. A Dream-a Wa-kening."
But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?"
"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the sandwiches?"
"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And the children knew by her
face that she hadn't got them. "Let me see." And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have
them in ten minutes."
Sadie went,
"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the smoking-room. I've got the names
some where on the back of an envelope. You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this
minute and take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you hear
me, children, or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home to-night? And-and, Jose, pacify
cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this moming."
The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs.
Sheridan could not imagine.
"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember vividly-cream cheese and
lemon-curd. Have you done that?"
"Yes."
"Egg and Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks like mice. It can't be mice, can it?"
"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder.
"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and olive."
They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Jose there pacifying the
cook, who did not look at all terrifying
"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous voice. "How many kinds did you
say there were, cook? Fifteen?*
"Fifteen, Miss Jose."
"Well, cook, I congratulate you."
Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly.
"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had seen the man pass the
window.
That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their cream puffs Nobody ever
thought of making them at home.
"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl, ordered cook.
Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Jose were far too grown-up to
really care about such things. All the same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puff's looked very
attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.
"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura
"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried back. "They look beautifully
light and feathery, I must say."
"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma won't know."
Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All the
same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that
only comes from whipped cream.
"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way, suggested Laura. "I want to see how the men are
getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully nice men."
But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.
Something had happened.
"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as though
she had toothache. Hans's face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man
seemed to be enjoying himself, it was his story.
"What's the matter? What's happened?"
"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed"
"A man killed! Where? How? When?"
But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his very nose.
"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of course, she knew them. "Well,
there's a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, comer
of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed."
"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man..
"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They were taking the body home as
I come up here." And he said to the cook, "He's left a wife and five little ones.
"Jose, come here. Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen to the
other side of the green baize door. There she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified,
"however are we going to stop everything?"
"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you mean?"
"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?
But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course
we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant
"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the front gate."
That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of
a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They
were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They
were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but
cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-
stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the
Sheridans' chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose
house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans
were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they
might catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked
through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must go
everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.
"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," said Laura.
"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop a band playing every time
some one has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel
just as sympathetic. Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were
little and fighting together. "You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental,"
she said softly.
"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She said, just as they had used to
say on those occasions, "I'm going straight up to tell mother."
"Do, dear," cooed Jose.
"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass door-knob.
"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? Whats given you such a colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned
round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat.
"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.
"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.
"No, no!"
"Oh, what a fright you gave mel Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and held it
on her knees.
"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the dreadful story. "Of course, we
can't have our party, can we?" she pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us,
mother, they're nearly neighbours!"
To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to bear because she seemed
amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.
"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If some one had
died there normally-and I can't understand how they keep alive in those poky little holes-we should
still be having our party, shouldn't we?"
Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and
pinched the cushion frill.
"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked.
"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her
she had popped it on. "My child!" said her mother, "the hat is yours. Ifs made for you. It's much too
young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she held up her hand-
mirror.
"But, mother," Laura began again, She couldn't look at herself, she turned aside.
This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.
"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that don't expect sacrifices from us.
And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."
"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom.
There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat
trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like
that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant?
Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and
those little children, and the body being carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a
picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow
that seemed quite the best plan....
Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready for the fray. The green-coated
band had arrived and was established in a corner of the tennis-court.
"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged
them round the pond with the conductor in the middle on a leaf."
Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered the
accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all
right. And she followed him into the hall.
"Lauriel"
"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly puffed out
his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an
absolutely topping hat!"
Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him after all.
Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up, the hired waiters ran from the
house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers,
greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans'
garden for this one afternoon, on their way to where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who
all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes,
"Darling Laura, how well you look!"
"What a becoming hat, child!"
"Laura, you look quite Spanish, I've never seen you look so striking"
And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have an ice? The passion-fruit
ices really are rather special," She ran to her father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band
have something to drink?"
And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals closed.
"Never a more delightful garden-party... "The greatest success... "Quite the most..."
Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the porch till it was all over.
"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan, "Round up the others, Laura, Lefs go and have
some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties!
Why will you children insist on giving parties! And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee.
"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag."
"Thanks. Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. "I suppose you didn't
hear of a beastly accident that happened to-day?" he said.
"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted
we should put it off."
"Oh, mother!" Laura didilt want to be teased about it.
"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan, "The chap was married too. Lived just below
in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kiddies, so they say."
An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of
father...
Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all
going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas.
"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor creature some of this perfectly good
food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have
neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laural She jumped up.
"Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard."
"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.
Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would
the poor woman really like that?
*Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being
sympathetic, and now-
Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother.
"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum lilies too.
People of that class are so impressed by arum lilies."
"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.
So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"-her mother followed her out of the
marquee-don't on any account"
"What mother"
No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run along."
It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road
gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it
seemed after the aftermoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead,
and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses,
voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no
room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it
was the most successful party."
Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's
tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum
came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-
like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a
coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer-if only it was another hat! Were
the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come, she knew all along it was a
mistake. Should she go back even now?
No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an
old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper, The voices
stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they
had known she was coming here.
Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing
by, "Is this Mrs, Scott's house?" and the woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."
Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she walked up the tiny path and
knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women's
shawls even. I'll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied.
Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.
Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered, "Walk in please, miss," and
she was shut in the passage.
"No," said Laura, "I dorft want to come in. I only want to leave this basket. Mother
The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. "Step this way, please, miss,"
she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her.
She found herself in a wretched little kow kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman
sitting before the fire.
"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young lady. She turned to Laura. She said
meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. You'll excuse'er, won't you?"
"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I-I only want to leave
But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up, red, with swollen eyes
and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there.
What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all
about? And the poor face puckered up again.
"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady."
And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face, swollen too, ir sed an oily smile.
Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The door opened. She walked
straight through into the bedroom, where the dead man was lying.
"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she brushed past Laura over to the bed.
"Don't be afraid, my lass, and now her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the
sheet-"e looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."
Laura came.
There lay a young man, fast asleep sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he was far, fr away from them
both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in
the pillow, his eyes were closed, they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his
dream, What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those
things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this
marvel had come to the lane. Happy... happy... All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it
should be. I am content
But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room without saying something to him.
Laura gave a loud childish sob.
"Forgive my hat," she said.
And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of the door, down the path, past
all those dark people. At the corner of the lane she met Laurie.
He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"
"Yes"
"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?"
"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him.
"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.
Laura shook her head. She was
Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Dorft cry," he said in his warm, loving voice. "Was it awful?"
"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie She stopped, she looked at her brother.
"Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't life- But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite
understood,
"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.
Extract 1

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if
they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of
light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the
lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been
seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only
flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.
Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night, the green bushes bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee,
*Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to you children this year.
Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honoured guest."
But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and
she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the
butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.
"You'll have to go, Laura, you're the artistic one."
Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's so delicious to have an excuse for
eating out of doors, and besides, she loved having to arrange things, she always felt she could do it so
much better than anybody else.
Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They carried staves
covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive,
Laura wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and
she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-
sighted as she came up to them.

Extract 2

It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road
gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it
seemed after the aftermoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead,
and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses,
voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no
room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it
was the most successful party."
Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's
tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum
came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-
like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a
coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer-if only it was another hat! Were
the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come, she knew all along it was a
mistake. Should she go back even now?
No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an
old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper, The voices
stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they
had known she was coming here.

Extract 2