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قراءة كتاب Too Old for Dolls: A Novel
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TOO OLD FOR DOLLS
A NOVEL
BY
ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI
AUTHOR OF "MANSEL FELLOWES," "CATHERINE DOYLE," "A DEFENCE
OF ARISTOCRACY," ETC.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1921
Copyright, 1921
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
THE ENGLISH FLAPPER[1]
The forge still glowing on her cheek.
Untamed as yet, Life still prevails
Within her breast and fain would speak.
And in the arbour where she lolls,
Repeat the impudent refrain;
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
Of making each advantage tell:
Her hat, her hair still down her back,
Her frocks and muff of mighty spell;
In summer-time her parasols;
Each eloquent with the refrain:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
She looks at all, or hind or squire;
In truth more keenly than the best
Matriculation marks require.
To watch the seasons, how they go,
And note the burgeoning of trees,
Or bulbs and pansies, how they grow.
"Why should I learn how lilies blow?"
And, dropping botany, she sighs
For some new flounce or furbelow.
The sound of courting birds that sing,
Are sweeter music to this child
Than all piano practising.
And writes sad lays and barcarolles,
All emphasising the refrain:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
Of wonder for a life that's new,
And trembling her passions sing
Their praise within her father's pew.
Thus oft acquire a deeper note,
When they're intoned by voices young,
Or issue from a virgin's throat.
And magic to the life that's new,
And heartily her voice-chords ring
Beside her father's in his pew.
With eyes downcast and manner prim,
May well be minded by the sight,
Of angels pure or cherubim.
The thrills and throbs but half divined;
The future and the great word "Wife,"
Which ofttimes occupy her mind!
The dreams that leave her soul aghast,
And make her long to hold and know
The entertaining truth at last!
And in the arbour where she lolls,
With merry gesture cry again:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
[1] First published in The New Age, December 4th, 1919.
Too Old for Dolls
CHAPTER I
On a vast Chesterfield, every unoccupied square inch of which seemed to bulge with indignant pride, Mrs. Delarayne reclined in picturesque repose. Her small feet, looking if possible more dainty than usual in their spruce patent leather shoes, were resting on a rich silk cushion whose glistening gold tassels lay heavily amid all the crushed splendour of the couch. Other cushions, equally purse-proud and brazen, supported the more important portions of the lady's frame, and a deep floorward curve in the line of the Chesterfield conveyed the impression that, however tenderly Mrs. Delarayne might wish to be embraced by her furniture and its wedges of down, she was at all events a creature of substantial proportions and construction.
The picture presented was one of careless and secure opulence.
The contents of the room in which Mrs. Delarayne rested had obviously been designed and produced by human effort of the most conscientious and loving kind. All the objects about her were treasures either of art or antiquity, or both, and stood there as evidence of the power which their present owner, or her ancestors, must have been able to exercise over hundreds of gifted painters, cabinet-makers, needlewomen, potters, braziers, carvers, metal-workers, and craftsmen of all kinds for generations.
It was late in June in the ninth year of King Edward VII's reign—that halcyon period when nobody who was anybody felt particularly happy, because no such person had actually experienced what unhappiness was. Certainly Mrs. Delarayne had not, unless she had shown really exceptional fortitude and self-control over her husband's death.
A sound in the room suddenly made her turn her head, and she dropped her book gently into the folds of her dress.
"My dear child," she exclaimed,