Fragrant Flower Read Free Page B

would come off the better in any physical contest.
    After having her face slapped until her cheeks were on fire and her arms pinched until the bruises were purple against her skin, Azalea did her best not to antagonise her aunt.
    Now, hurrying along the passage which led to the Library and carrying the sandwiches and drink which constituted the General’s invariable night-cap, Azalea wondered what it would have been like if she could have had a new gown and attended her uncle’s party.
    She knew from the invitations that only a small number of younger guests had been invited, and those were in fact either officers or the sons and daughters of families which her aunt considered of social importance.
    “If I had been having a party,” Azalea told herself, “I would want to ask my friends – my real friends.”
    Then she remembered that she was never likely to have any.
    She entered the Study which was at the opposite end of the house from the other Reception Rooms and saw the fire was burning brightly in the grate, which meant that Burrows must have remembered to make it up.
    The gaslight gave out a mellow glow which hid the shabbiness of the armchairs and the parts of the carpet which were worn with age.
    But there were books all around the room and Azalea, although she had very little time, had already sneaked a number of them away upstairs to her bedroom and read them with joy.
    In the house in Hampstead, it was, however, hard to read late into the night because her bedroom was so cold. Violet and Daisy, like her aunt, had fires in their rooms, lit by an under-housemaid first thing in the morning, and kept burning throughout the day.
    But Azalea was not accorded such a privilege, and no amount of blankets could keep her from shivering and her nose from turning blue and pinched even with the windows closed.
    She put the whisky and the sandwiches down on a table and turned towards the fire holding out her hands to the blaze.
    As she did so she saw the reflection of herself in the mirror which hung over the mantelpiece.
    Her appearance had altered in the last two years – her breasts were still a little immature, but her bones no longer stood out sharply.
    Her face was heart-shaped, very like her mother’s, and her eyes seemed to have grown larger so that they were arresting to anyone looking at her.
    If she was unusually pale it was because she was overworked and seldom had an opportunity to go outside the house. Not that she wished to brave the winter winds and the cold of Hampstead Heath.
    Azalea looked at herself carefully.
    She did not know if her dark hair and big, worried eyes were attractive or not.
    She only wished her father was there to tell her what he thought. Then she looked away from her face and down at the enveloping apron in which she had been cooking all day.
    Underneath it she wore a gown which had belonged either to Violet or Daisy. They were always dressed in identical fashion and she knew that while it was becoming to them because they looked their best in the pale, pastel shades of blue, pink and beige, such colours were to her unbecoming.
    She did not quite know why. Perhaps it was because by the time she received the gowns they were worn out, faded with washing and often difficult to adjust to her figure.
    “Oh well, who is likely to see me?” she asked of her reflection, then as she spoke the words aloud she heard footsteps approaching the door.
    She knew it was unlikely to be her uncle, since he could not leave his guests and, as she had no wish to encounter strangers, she slipped hurriedly behind the heavy velvet curtains which covered the window.
    She had hardly had time to conceal herself before the door opened.
    “There is no one here,” a man said in a deep voice. “Let us sit down for a moment, George. We have done our duty in no uncertain fashion!”
    “You have, Mirvin,” was the answer.
    Having written out the invitations Azalea was now aware of who both the men were.
    There