The Camomile Lawn [antikvár]

Helena Cuthbertson picked up the crumpled Times by her sleeping husband and went to the flower room to iron it. When she had suggested they should buy two copies of the paper, so that each could enjoy it in its pristine state, Richard had flared into rage and his accusations of extravagance had gone on for weeks, made worse when she had pointed out that it was her money that paid the paper bill. Ironing the paper, a self-imposed task, she inclined to regret her period of widowhood after the war when she had read The Times whenever she pleased and not had to wait. Replacing the sheets in their proper order, she considered it ironic that any man could take so long reading the leaders and the Hatch, Match and Dispatches and reduce the paper to hopeless disorder. She looked roimd the flower room; it was far from tidy. Something should be done about it, but not now. Helena let herself into the garden, walked round to the camomile laAAm, sat down in a deck chair and settled to read the paper. Richard would sleep for another hour before fussing as to whether he or she should meet the evening train, and to which bedrooms his nephews and nieces should be assigned, as though they did not always decide for themselves. Richard attributed his temper and fussiness to being gassed in the trenches. Turning the pages of the paper, Helena rather wondered. She laid the paper down and, closing her eyes, lifted her face to the sun. There was no good news these days and