Something Light by Margery Sharp Page B

and on the Borough Council. His mother had been a schoolteacher. From the rare occasions when she visited them Louisa recalled an upright piano and bound volumes of the National Geographic magazine. She recalled also their quiet pride in the fact that Jimmy was taking a full-time course at the London Polytechnic. “He’ll be better qualified than his father,” said Mr. Brown, “when the time comes to take over!”
    â€œLouisa ought to go to the Poly too,” said Jimmy earnestly. “She’s got a very good brain, Dad; she has really.”
    But both elders looked at Louisa’s fiery hair and long legs.
    â€œLouisa’s found her career already,” said Mrs. Brown kindly. “How are you liking it, dear, with Mr. Hughes?”
    Mr. Hughes was the local photographer. Louisa, a sulky if not idle apprentice, said he was all right.
    â€œIn my opinion, it’s still a waste,” stated Jimmy.
    â€œIn my opinion,” said Mr. Brown heartily, “Louisa’ll find herself married to one of her many admirers before she can turn round!”
    Well, he’d been wrong. It wasn’t marriage that took Louisa away from Broydon, it was her own initiative. And after an interval of ten years, if Jimmy himself hadn’t married in the meantime, that same initiative was going to take her back.
    The conclusion was as swift as when she decided to marry F. Pennon; but it will be seen that Louisa, from that same disappointing episode, had learned a modicum of prudence. Jimmy Brown was in fact still a bachelor; but she made sure of it in advance.

Chapter Nine
    1
    â€œIs that the optician’s?” asked Louisa, over the telephone.
    She’d already checked in the directory that it was listed under James, not Henry, Brown; fortunately Jimmy hadn’t been named for his father. (Was his father dead, or merely retired? In any case the circumstance was propitious.) Propitious too was the answering voice—not Jimmy’s, but evidently that of a female assistant.
    â€œActually it’s Mrs . Brown I want to speak to,” said Louisa cunningly. “Mrs. James Brown. Could you possibly put me through to her?”
    â€œI’m afraid there’s some mistake,” said the assistant. “There is no Mrs. Brown.”
    Louisa thought rapidly. She had learned all she needed, but didn’t wish the conversation officiously reported …
    The voice sounded conscientious—and prim.
    â€œI suppose you wouldn’t be interested yourself, in a new type of foundation garment?”
    â€œCertainly not!” snapped the assistant, and rang off with her lips effectually sealed.
    2
    Newly prudent, newly cautious Louisa! ( Che va piano va sicuro; also softly-softly catchee monkey.) A night’s reflection had convinced her that this time she should not only look before she leaped but should also, so to speak, establish some solid base for unhurried operating. Steadiness has its limitations; however glad to see her, if she simply blew into the shop Jimmy was quite capable of letting her blow out again before he realized, too late, all of gladness the future might hold in store.… Only a semi-permanent relation (say a week) would give him time to get his hocks under him; and a week Louisa was fully prepared to devote.
    Fortunately she had an extremely accurate memory for dogs. (This not in the circumstances an irrelevance; far from it.) After leafing through only two back numbers of Country Month Louisa picked out Ivor and Ivan Cracarovitch, owner Mrs. Arthur Brent, of Broydon Court. The aristocratic address was misleading; even in Louisa’s day Broydon Court had declined to a residential hotel; Mrs. Brent was the proprietress.
    She lifted the receiver again.
    â€œMrs. Brent? This is Miss Datchett speaking,” said Louisa, “Datchett Photographer of Dogs. May I tell you I think your borzois are quite magnificent?”
    A flattered unsuspicious