The Rose Garden Read Free Page A

should go in the cottage, and how that should go, all over her, she was, sweet and nice as you please. But then one night he came up by himself, and the first thing you know, she was on the phone asking him over for a drink. ‘I love your girl,’ she says to him, ‘a dear girl. What does she do?’ she says—as if she didn’t know, I heard her questioning the girl myself. ‘She works in the advertising department in the store,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that interesting,’ she says. ‘But isn’t it a pity she’s not more at ease here,’ she says. ‘We’re such a select little group, you know. A lot of artists and writers, creative people. We see each other all the time,’ she says. ‘It’s so important to fit in, as you do,’ she says. ‘I want to give a little party for you, and introduce you to everybody. And there’s my friend Charles Runyon, the critic—you know his name, of course.’ That’s Mr. God. ‘You must meethim the minute he gets back from Europe. He’s so charming,’ she says. ‘I know you’ll adore him, as we all do.’ And then she invited him to a dinner party she was giving, not mentioning the girl, and he didn’t mention the girl, either, and he never brought her near the place again. Of course, he didn’t know what he was getting in for, with this one. He thought she was all interested in his cottage. And all she was thinking about was how fast she could get it out of the way so she could have her precious view.”
    â€œAnd now I suppose all she’s thinking about is how fast she can get him out of the way.”
    â€œAh, no, she doesn’t mind him, as long as he behaves himself and doesn’t cause her any trouble. He’s not a bad-looking young fellow, you know. And now she has Mr. God coming around again, paying her compliments and inviting her in to New York to see the new plays, and all. You’ll see—he’ll be out here every weekend, just the way he used to be. He has his own room here, even. He told her the way he wanted it, and she had it all done up for him. He hasn’t even got his own car, but they fall over themselves around here to see which one of them will give him a lift out from the city. They think it’s an honor, having him around. He’s supposed to be very witty. A wit, he is. He never opens that narrow little mouth of his but they all collapse laughing.”
    â€œThe way they carry on, it’s not decent.”
    â€œOh, the things I could tell you about their carrying-on,” Bridie said ominously. “It would curl your hair.”
    â€œYou mean her and Mr. God.”
    â€œNo, no, nothing like that there. He’s the sort that just pays compliments. I heard him telling her she has a face on her that belongs to the ages. What do you make of that?”
    â€œIs that a compliment? What sort of a compliment is that? Isn’t that a queer thing to say to a woman!”
    â€œShe liked it. She says she’s in love with his mind.”
    â€œIn love with Mr. God’s mind?”
    â€œShe’s in love with Mr. God’s mind.”
    â€œIn love with his mind. Well, that’s a new one. I never heard that one before.”
    â€œNeither did Mr. Harkey, by the look of him.”
    â€œThere he is now,” said Agnes, who had resumed her stand by the window. Bridie came to look over her shoulder.
    Flashlight in hand, George was making his way timorously over the darkened lawn. He passed the naked woman, at whom he did not glance. Passing the clown, he turned the light briefly on the painted face, and proceeded on. He walked slowly over the place where his cottage had raised its walls, and reached at last the edge of the river, where he stood stabbing convulsively with the flashlight out into the blackness. The path he lighted across and around and over and above the water was ragged and