Tongues of Fire

I

The friendly little dinner party was over, and Cecilia Lance had thoroughly enjoyed it; the Lindleys were kindly, simple people; the gramophone had been turned on and her dancing partner, Harold Sharpe, had been there. Cecilia and Harold knew one another’s steps as intimately as they knew one another’s minds. “Odd that Cecilia doesn’t marry,” Lindley remarked, half to himself, half to his wife, as they sat over a cigarette when the last guest had driven away. “She’s still pretty. Eveiybody likes her. And such a cheery soul.” He puffed his cigarette reflectively. “She has charm, too⁠—eh?” he inquired presently, as his wife offered no comment. He glanced up affectionately at her. “Always full of life, yes,” came the belated reply. “I think she enjoyed herself tonight. I think they all did. They liked the new records, too.” Her husband smiled and nodded. The new records had cost money. “I wish we could do it more often,” he mentioned, sighing ruefully. The Lindleys were hospitably inclined, but they were poor, and even a dinner party had to be calculated. “Now, that fellow Sharpe”⁠—he went back to his first line of thought⁠—“I thought at one time⁠—they seemed to understand each other pretty well.” His wife hesitated a moment, gazing into the gas fire. “They still do, I think,” she said. “Their views of life are the same”⁠—then, after a second’s pause, as though the words slipped out against her kindlier judgment⁠—“and of people.” Her husband, however, discerned neither the hesitation nor the effort at restraint that caused it. Both had their tongues well under control, he by a natural good nature, she by education. They were an affectionate, devoted, faithful couple to whom none but the most determined could impute deliberate evil. A little later, as they tidied away the records before going to bed, he remarked casually; “Sharp as a needle, though, isn’t she? By Jove, yes!” He laughed. “They both are, for that matter,” and he chuckled again. “They don’t mean to be. I’m sure,” was his wife’s charitable comment. Again, apparently, he did not notice anything. It was her usual way of talking, anyhow. The Lindleys invariably were kindly in their judgments of people. They did not criticise others⁠—nastily. “I’ll put the lights out, Dolly,” he said presently. “You pop up to bed. It’s late, and you must be tired.” He kissed her, patting her on the shoulder. Fifteen minutes afterwards the room, so lately filled with music, whirling couples and merry voices, had darkness and the atmosphere of faded scent and stale cigarette-smoke to itself. Meanwhile Cecilia Lance and Harold Sharpe were also talking in their taxi as he drove her to the widowed sister she lived with in Chester Street. They were in merry mood, satisfied with the evening just over. They discussed it in their usual way. Both voted it “ripping.” “Yet I never really care for a gramophone,” Cecilia mentioned. “It’s better than nothing, though,” her dancing partner agreed, while he qualified. “Yes, I suppose so,” she submitted, “only the records were so rotten, weren’t they?” “Putrid,” said Sharpe. “Why don’t they get a few good ones, I wonder.” She mentioned a few names. “If people use a gramophone for dancing, the least they can do is to have the latest tunes.” To this her companion also gave assent. They both felt aggrieved. In a few minutes there was nothing bad enough left to say about the music, the floor, the cooking of the little dinner, and the heat of the room. They selected all the least favourable points and emphasised them, yet in their easy, natural way and without calculated motives. Next they turned their attention to the other dancers, Cecilia leading the way, as before, with faint praise. “Not a bad lot,” observed Harold patronisingly. “Quite nice,” Cecilia qualified, “only I wonder where in the world they pick up such people.” Her companion, while agreeing, mentioned that a certain girl “looked all right, I thought.” “What! That dowdy creature!” Whereupon he swore he had really only noticed one girl, whose name was Cecilia, and so remedied his mistake. The criticism of the dresses which followed was largely a monologue, since Harold Sharpe merely approved her verdict with “awful, perfectly awful”; but when the taxi arrived after a drive of six minutes, the entire evening, including dinner, dance and dancers, had been so damned that no Recording Angel would have thought it worth even entering in his Book. The names of the destroyers, however, he possibly might have entered. “Oh, come in for a minute and have a drink, my sister’s sure to be up,” invited Cecilia.