Cluny Brown Read Online Free

she really did need bathing; Mr. Ames, with his wider experience, was naturally more struck by this than Cluny. He felt he had never advanced this gambit in more favourable circumstances, and that it was a good omen.
    â€œYou are kind …” said Cluny.
    â€œNot in the least. I’ll get you a towel.”
    But Cluny Brown had not yet made up her mind; in the Porritt-Trumper circles of her upbringing one did not take baths as lightly as all that. One planned them ahead, with due regard to when the boiler would be on, and who else wanted one; above all, after bathing, one assumed clean underwear. Cluny naturally had no change of linen with her, and this put her off. She also felt she could have almost as good a time in the hand basin.
    â€œI’ll just wash,” said she. “But thank you all the same.”
    â€œMuch better have a bath,” said Mr. Ames.
    â€œDo I hum?” asked Cluny anxiously.
    Then Mr. Ames made his mistake. He should have told her the truth, that she did indeed smell pretty foul. But he wasn’t used to people who took their truth neat.
    â€œGood heavens, no.”
    â€œThen I’ll just wash,” said Cluny. “Run along.”
    There was no key to the lock, but this did not worry her, because of course Mr. Ames knew she was inside; removing the upper part of her dress Cluny sluiced herself vigorously in the lovely hot water and worked up a glorious lather of geranium-scented soap. (Mr. Ames, quietly reopening the door, saw nothing of her but her long, thin, ivory-coloured back; and Cluny, her eyes full of suds, did not see Mr. Ames.) The sweet spicy scent enchanted her, it easily over-rode the last of the cabbage-water, and she readjusted her dress with well-founded complacency. Her nose was of course shiny again, but by some fortunate chance the toilet appliances included a large bowl of powder. Cluny was never one to spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar. When she returned to the studio Mr. Ames, mixing cocktails, smelt her before he saw her.
    He did not immediately speak. A moment was repeating itself (Mr. Ames was a connoisseur of such moments). As he had been struck before by the peculiar intimacy of Cluny’s entry by the back-door, so now he was struck by the intimacy of her entry from his bathroom. He gave her a long look; then the ice clinked in the shaker as he set it down.
    â€œCocktail or tea?” asked Mr. Ames.
    â€œCocktail,” said Cluny promptly.
    He handed her the small ice-cold glass—the first cocktail of Cluny Brown’s experience. It was a dry martini, and it went down her ivory throat in one long ripple.
    â€œGood God!” exclaimed Mr. Ames. “You don’t drink it like that!”
    â€œBeer you do,” said Cluny simply.
    Strangely moved by this unsophistication, Mr. Ames made her sit down on the divan and waited with almost paternal anxiety for the effects. There seemed to be none. To his enquiry how she felt Cluny replied that she felt fine, and asked for another to drink it properly. Mr. Ames poured her a small one, and one for himself, and under his guidance Cluny tried again, taking delicate sips, and setting the glass down, between times, on a low coffee table. The divan too was low, very wide and soft, backed by a pile of cushions: Cluny settled comfortably back, happy in the belief that as cocktails were so much more relaxing than orange juice, so no doubt they superiorly toned the system. Mr. Ames leaned on one elbow and watched her. It was by now incredible to him that he had ever thought her plain: he could see only the extraordinarily fine texture of her white skin and the extraordinarily clean cut of the lids over her long black eyes.
    â€œWhat about your party?” asked Cluny suddenly.
    â€œYou’re staying for it.”
    â€œDo you think I ought?”
    â€œPositive.”
    â€œThank you very much,” said Cluny.
    Mr. Ames took a firm hold on himself. His