By Katherine Mansfield
Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. No， you couldn’thave called her beautiful. Pretty？ Well， if you took her topieces... But why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces？
She was young， brilliant， extremely modem， exquisitely welldressed， amazingly well read in the newest of the new books，and her parties were the most delicious mixture of the reallyimportant people and... artists—quaint creatures， discoveriesof hers， some of them too terrifying for words， but others quitepresentable and amusing.
Rosemary had been married for two years. She had a duckof a boy. No， not Peter—Michael. And her husband absolutelyadored her. They were rich， really rich， not just comfortablywell off， which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one’sgrandparents. But if Rosemary wanted to shop she would goto Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street . If she wantedto buy flowers， the car pulled up at that perfect shop in RegentStreet， and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her dazzled，rather exotic way， and said： “I want those and those and those.
Give me four bunches of those. And that jar of roses. Yes， I’llhave all the roses in the jar. No， no lilac. I hate lilac. It’s got noshape.” The attendant bowed and put the lilac out of sight， asthough this was only too true； lilac was dreadfully shapeless.
“Give me those stumpy little tulips. Those red and white ones.”
And she was followed to the car by a thin shop-girl staggeringunder an immense white paper armful that looked like a babyin long clothes....
One winter afternoon she had been buying something in alittle antique shop in Curzon Street . It was a shop she liked.
For one thing， one usually had it to oneself. And then the manwho kept it was ridiculously fond of serving her. He beamedwhenever she came in. He clasped his hands； he was sogratified he could scarcely speak. Flattery， of course. All thesame， there was something...
“You see， madam，” he would explain in his low respectfultones， “I love my things. I would rather not part with them thansell them to someone who does not appreciate them， who hasnot that fine feeling which is so rare...” And， breathing deeply，he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet and pressed it on theglass counter with his pale finger-tips.
To-day it was a little box. He had been keeping it for her. Hehad shown it to nobody as yet. An exquisite little enamel boxwith a glaze so fine it looked as though it had been baked incream. On the lid a minute creature stood under a flowery tree，and a more minute creature still had her arms round his neck.
Her hat， really no bigger than a geranium petal， hung from abranch； it had green ribbons. And there was a pink cloud like awatchful cherub floating above their heads. Rosemary took herhands out of her long gloves. She always took off her glovesto examine such things. Yes， she liked it very much. She lovedit； it was a great duck. She must have it. And， turning thecreamy box， opening and shutting it， she couldn’t help noticinghow charming her hands were against the blue velvet. Theshopman， in some dim cavern of his mind， may have dared tothink so too. For he took a pencil， leant over the counter， andhis pale， bloodless fingers crept timidly towards those rosy，flashing ones， as he murmured gently： “If I may venture topoint out to madam， the flowers on the little lady’s bodice.”
“Charming！” Rosemary admired the flowers. But what wasthe price？ For a moment the shopman did not seem to hear.
Then a murmur reached her. “Twenty-eight guineas， madam.”
“Twenty-eight guineas.” Rosemary gave no sign. She laidthe little box down； she buttoned her gloves again. Twentyeightguineas. Even if one is rich... She looked vague. Shestared at a plump tea-kettle like a plump hen above theshopman’s head， and her voice was dreamy as she answered：
“Well， keep it for me—will you？ I’ll...”
But the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it forher was all any human being could ask. He would be willing，of course， to keep it for her for ever.
The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on thestep， gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling， and withthe rain it seemed the dark came too， spinning down like ashes.
There was a cold bitter taste in the air， and the new-lightedlamps looked sad. Sad were the lights in the houses opposite.
Dimly they burned as if regretting something. And peoplehurried by， hidden under their hateful umbrellas. Rosemaryfelt a strange pang. She pressed her muff against her breast；she wished she had the little box， too， to cling to. Of coursethe car was there. She’d only to cross the pavement. But stillshe waited. There are moments， horrible moments in life，when one emerges from shelter and looks out， and it’s awful.
One oughtn’t to give way to them. One ought to go home andhave an extra-special tea. But at the very instant of thinkingthat， a young girl， thin， dark， shadowy—where had she comefrom？—was standing at Rosemary’s elbow and a voice like asigh， almost like a sob， breathed： “Madam， may I speak to youa moment？”
“Speak to me？” Rosemary turned. She saw a little batteredcreature with enormous eyes， someone quite young， no olderthan herself， who clutched at her coat-collar with reddened hands，and shivered as though she had just come out of the water.
“M-madam，” stammered the voice. “Would you let me havethe price of a cup of tea？”
“A cup of tea？” There was something simple， sincere in thatvoice； it wasn’t in the least the voice of a beggar. “Then haveyou no money at all？” asked Rosemary.
“None， madam，” came the answer.
“How extraordinary！” Rosemary peered through the duskand the girl gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary！
And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. Itwas like something out of a novel by Dostoevsky， this meetingin the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home？ Supposing shedid do one of those things she was always reading about orseeing on the stage， what would happen？ It would be thrilling.
