Miss Prim sighed with relief.
“Is that what you call it?”
“It is indeed. Do sit down, dear. I’ll call Emma, Virginia, and Herminia. I think that’ll be enough. We don’t want all of San Ireneo finding out, do we?” The florist smiled affectionately and went to the kitchen.
Miss Prim sank into the sofa in front of the fire. Hortensia Oeillet’s sitting room was small and pretty. Old photographs, vases of camellias, children’s drawings of plants—the librarian recalled that her hostess was San Ireneo’s botany teacher—pressed flowers in collages and books, lots of books, made it a very pleasant place to be.
“What a lovely room, Hortensia!” exclaimed the librarian as the florist returned with a jug of hot chocolate, a plate of butter buns, lemon biscuits, and a large custard tart on a tray, which she set down on the table by the fire.
“Do you like it? It is a bit old-fashioned, but here in San Ireneo we enjoy that. We live with one foot in the past, as you know, my dear.”
Miss Prim assured her that she did know and had started to appreciate it herself.
“Oh, I’m so pleased! I was afraid you’d never adjust—it’s so different. After all, we do live slightly on the fringe of things here.”
“Or evencontra mundum,” laughed Prudencia, accepting a cup of hot chocolate.
“That’s true. What was I going to say? Ah, yes! Our guests are on their way; they’ll be here in five minutes and coffee will be ready in three. I’ve also invited Lulu Thiberville. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Lulu Thiberville?”
“She’s the oldest and most respected woman in the village. She’s almost ninety-five. I asked her because she’s very wise and because...” Hortensia hesitated and glanced sideways at Miss Prim “...she’s outlived three husbands. You didn’t say exactly why you needed advice, but something in your face told me it might be a problem of a romantic nature, shall we say, so I thought of her.”
The librarian blushed crimson.
“You did the right thing. I look forward to meeting Lulu Thiberville,” she said with a smile.
Mrs. Thiberville turned out to be a wizened little woman with a rasping, imperious voice and the gift of making herself the absolute center of attention. She was wearing an old astrakhan coat that smelled of mothballs and a small gray hat adorned with a feather.
“So it’s you,” she said as she entered, followed by the other guests. They settled her by the fire, propping her feet on a small footstool and hovering like worker bees around their queen.
“Well?” asked the old lady. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Hortensia introduced the librarian and briefly set out what she knew of the situation: Miss Prim had arrived unexpectedly, anxious and upset and in need of help; she’d requested an extraordinary conclave, an unscheduled meeting of the ladies of San Ireneo to discuss an urgent matter.
“My dear Prudencia, would you be so kind as to tell us about your problem?”
Encouraged by Herminia Treaumont’s smile, Miss Prim began. In deferense to Lulu Thiberville, she started by explaining the eccentric method of searching for a husband that she had agreed to, and how, that afternoon, she had concluded that the question mark on the list denoted her employer. Then she described her strange, tense relationship with him, the lively conversations and confidences, the smiles and courtesies and the sudden reprimands. Endeavoring to appear calm, she confessed reluctantly that she was attracted to him. She couldn’t understand why, as he was an odd man with extreme religious beliefs, utterly insensitive, and intolerably domineering. Like all independent women, Miss Prim was opposed to domination of any kind. In her opinion, the marital relationship should be based upon the most exquisite and refined sort of equality.
“You’re starting out all wrong,” the queen bee pronounced from her armchair.
“Why?” asked the librarian, stunned.
Shifting uneasily, Herminia opened her mouth to intervene, but a magisterial gesture from the old lady stayed her.
“All this talk of equality is complete nonsense,” declared Lulu starkly.
“But why?” Miss Prim asked again.
“My dear Prudencia,” began Hortensia, “what Lulu means—”
“Be quiet, Hortensia,” snapped the old lady. “I don’t need anyone to explain what I mean. I’m sure you and Emma are partly responsible for this poor girl’s distress, always going on about ridiculous Eastern theories on harmony, the whole and the parts. They’ve been on about harmony and the whole and the parts, haven’t they?”
With an apologetic glance at her hostess, she replied that she had indeed been instructed in the theory of harmony and the whole and the parts.
“You can forget about all that. More nonsense.”
“Lulu, please, I’d like to—” began Hortensia gently but firmly.
