The Essential Somerset Maugham: 33 Books in One Edition. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

alone. They paced it carefully, watching each other's steps, and as if by instinct performing corresponding movements, so as to make the whole a thing of symmetry.

      'I'm abaht done,' said Sally, blowing and puffing. 'I've 'ad enough of it.'

      'Go on, Liza!' cried out a dozen voices when Sally stopped.

      She gave no sign of having heard them other than calmly to continue her dance. She glided through the steps, and swayed about, and manipulated her skirt, all with the most charming grace imaginable, then, the music altering, she changed the style of her dancing, her feet moved more quickly, and did not keep so strictly to the ground. She was getting excited at the admiration of the onlookers, and her dance grew wilder and more daring. She lifted her skirts higher, brought in new and more difficult movements into her improvisation, kicking up her legs she did the wonderful twist, backwards and forwards, of which the dancer is proud.

      'Look at 'er legs!' cried one of the men.

      'Look at 'er stockin's!' shouted another; and indeed they were remarkable, for Liza had chosen them of the same brilliant hue as her dress, and was herself most proud of the harmony.

      Her dance became gayer: her feet scarcely touched the ground, she whirled round madly.

      'Take care yer don't split!' cried out one of the wags, at a very audacious kick.

      The words were hardly out of his mouth when Liza, with a gigantic effort, raised her foot and kicked off his hat. The feat was greeted with applause, and she went on, making turns and twists, flourishing her skirts, kicking higher and higher, and finally, among a volley of shouts, fell on her hands and turned head over heels in a magnificent catharine-wheel; then scrambling to her feet again, she tumbled into the arms of a young man standing in the front of the ring.

      'That's right, Liza,' he said. 'Give us a kiss, now,' and promptly tried to take one.

      'Git aht!' said Liza, pushing him away, not too gently.

      'Yus, give us a kiss,' cried another, running up to her.

      'I'll smack yer in the fice!' said Liza, elegantly, as she dodged him.

      'Ketch 'old on 'er, Bill,' cried out a third, 'an' we'll all kiss her.'

      'Na, you won't!' shrieked Liza, beginning to run.

      'Come on,' they cried, 'we'll ketch 'er.'

      She dodged in and out, between their legs, under their arms, and then, getting clear of the little crowd, caught up her skirts so that they might not hinder her, and took to her heels along the street. A score of men set in chase, whistling, shouting, yelling; the people at the doors looked up to see the fun, and cried out to her as she dashed past; she ran like the wind. Suddenly a man from the side darted into the middle of the road, stood straight in her way, and before she knew where she was, she had jumped shrieking into his arms, and he, lifting her up to him, had imprinted two sounding kisses on her cheeks.

      'Oh, you ——!' she said. Her expression was quite unprintable; nor can it be euphemized.

      There was a shout of laughter from the bystanders, and the young men in chase of her, and Liza, looking up, saw a big, bearded man whom she had never seen before. She blushed to the very roots of her hair, quickly extricated herself from his arms, and, amid the jeers and laughter of everyone, slid into the door of the nearest house and was lost to view.

      2

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       Liza and her mother were having supper. Mrs. Kemp was an elderly woman, short, and rather stout, with a red face, and grey hair brushed tight back over her forehead. She had been a widow for many years, and since her husband's death had lived with Liza in the ground-floor front room in which they were now sitting. Her husband had been a soldier, and from a grateful country she received a pension large enough to keep her from starvation, and by charring and doing such odd jobs as she could get she earned a little extra to supply herself with liquor. Liza was able to make her own living by working at a factory.

      Mrs. Kemp was rather sulky this evening.

      'Wot was yer doin' this afternoon, Liza?' she asked.

      'I was in the street.'

      'You're always in the street when I want yer.'

      'I didn't know as 'ow yer wanted me, mother,' answered Liza.

      'Well, yer might 'ave come ter see! I might 'ave been dead, for all you knew.'

      Liza said nothing.

      'My rheumatics was thet bad to-dy, thet I didn't know wot ter do with myself. The doctor said I was to be rubbed with that stuff 'e give me, but yer won't never do nothin' for me.'

      'Well, mother,' said Liza, 'your rheumatics was all right yesterday.'

      'I know wot you was doin'; you was showin' off thet new dress of yours. Pretty waste of money thet is, instead of givin' it me ter sive up. An' for the matter of thet, I wanted a new dress far worse than you did. But, of course, I don't matter.'

      Liza did not answer, and Mrs. Kemp, having nothing more to say, continued her supper in silence.

      It was Liza who spoke next.

      'There's some new people moved in the street. 'Ave you seen 'em?' she asked.

      'No, wot are they?'

      'I dunno; I've seen a chap, a big chap with a beard. I think 'e lives up at the other end.'

      She felt herself blushing a little.

      'No one any good you be sure,' said Mrs. Kemp. 'I can't swaller these new people as are comin' in; the street ain't wot it was when I fust come.'

      When they had done, Mrs. Kemp got up, and having finished her half-pint of beer, said to her daughter:

      'Put the things awy, Liza. I'm just goin' round to see Mrs. Clayton; she's just 'ad twins, and she 'ad nine before these come. It's a pity the Lord don't see fit ter tike some on 'em—thet's wot I say.'

      After which pious remark Mrs. Kemp went out of the house and turned into another a few doors up.

      Liza did not clear the supper things away as she was told, but opened the window and drew her chair to it. She leant on the sill, looking out into the street. The sun had set, and it was twilight, the sky was growing dark, bringing to view the twinkling stars; there was no breeze, but it was pleasantly and restfully cool. The good folk still sat at their doorsteps, talking as before on the same inexhaustible subjects, but a little subdued with the approach of night. The boys were still playing cricket, but they were mostly at the other end of the street, and their shouts were muffled before they reached Liza's ears.

      She sat, leaning her head on her hands, breathing in the fresh air and feeling a certain exquisite sense of peacefulness which she was not used to. It was Saturday evening, and she thankfully remembered that there would be no factory on the morrow; she was glad to rest. Somehow she felt a little tired, perhaps it was through the excitement of the afternoon, and she enjoyed the quietness of the evening. It seemed so tranquil and still; the silence filled her with a strange delight, she felt as if she could sit there all through the night looking out into the cool, dark street, and up heavenwards at the stars. She was very happy, but yet at the same time experienced a strange new sensation of melancholy, and she almost wished to cry.

      Suddenly a dark form stepped in front of the open window. She gave a little shriek.

      ''Oo's thet?' she asked, for it was quite dark, and she did not recognize the man standing in front of her.

      'Me, Liza,' was the answer.

      'Tom?'

      'Yus!'

      It was a young man with light yellow hair and a little fair moustache, which made him appear almost boyish; he was light-complexioned and blue-eyed, and had a frank and pleasant look mingled with a curious bashfulness