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And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders. "Mercy on us," said Mrs. Harry Kember, "what a little beauty you are!" "Don't!" said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the other, she felt a little beauty. "My dear why not?" said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her own petticoat.
Kember's husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man walking in his sleep.
Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't be silly!" His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched her to him.
Really her underclothes! A pair of blue cotton knickers and a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case... "And you don't wear stays, do you?" She touched Beryl's waist, and Beryl sprang away with a small affected cry. Then "Never!" she said firmly. "Lucky little creature," sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own.
"Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the hateful voice. But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. "You are vile, vile," said she. "Then why in God's name did you come?" stammered Harry Kember. Nobody answered him. A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled.
Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some one who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress all at one and the same time. "Oh, my dear don't mind me," said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why be shy? I shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like those other ninnies." And she gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. But Beryl was shy.
"I'm undressing farther along. I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember." "Very well." But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young.... "You look very pleased," said Mrs. Harry Kember.
She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that silly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette; and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast.
Yes, even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth. Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at the tape of her blouse.
But oh, how strange, how horrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband. In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did nothing.
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