THE DERSINGHAMS AT HOME 121

thorough mess/' she continued, with a relapse into her
natural manner.

"Not a bit. Jolly fine/' Mr. Dersingham mumbled,
feeling awkward as usual. He always had a suspicion
that he ought to have said something first: "My word,
you're looking jolly fine to-night/' something of that
sort. But somehow he never did.

"Don't be too complimentary, will you, darling?
Well, I must say I feel a thorough mess to-night. What
I'd really like is early bed and a book. This rush and
seeing people all the time is so terrible," Once more,
she was beginning to put on her company manner.

Mrs. Dersingham did not look a thorough mess, but
neither did she look as attractive as she hoped she did.
She looked like hundreds of other English wives in their
earlier thirties, that is, fair, tired, bright, and sagging.
She had pleasant blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and a
slightly discontented mouth. Her life, apart from the
secret saga of the kitchen and the nursery, where
creatures with the most astoundingly good references
were for ever turning out to be lazy, impudent, and
thieving, was really rather dull, for she had no strong
interests and very few friends in London. But this
she would not admit, not even to her husband, except on
rare occasions when she lost her temper, broke down,
and the truth came blazing through. She pretended
that her life was one exciting and multi-coloured whirl
of people and social events. She did not actually tell lies,
but she created at atmosphere in which every little occur-
rence was instantly distorted and magnified, like objects
dropped into a glass tank full of water. A tea on Monday
and a dinner party on Friday were transformed into a
week's feasting, a rushing here, there, and everywhere,