Yvette was rather thrilled by the Eastwoods, as she called them. The little Jewess had only
to wait three months now, for the final decree. She had boldly rented a small summer
cottage, by the moors up at Scoresby, not far from the hills. Now it was dead winter, and
she and the Major lived in comparative isolation, without any maid–servant. He had
already resigned his commission in the regular army, and called himself Mr. Eastwood. In
fact, they were already Mr. and Mrs. Eastwood, to the common world.
The little Jewess was thirty–six, and her two children were both over twelve years of age.
The husband had agreed that she should have the custody, as soon as she was married to
Eastwood.
So there they were, this queer couple, the tiny, finely–formed little Jewess with her big,
resentful, reproachful eyes, and her mop of carefully–barbered black, curly hair, an elegant
little thing in her way, and the big, pale–eyed young man, powerful and wintry, the
remnant surely of some old uncanny Danish stock: living together in a small modern
house near the moors and the hills, and doing their own housework.
It was a funny household. The cottage was hired furnished, but the little Jewess had
brought along her dearest pieces of furniture. She had an odd little taste for the rococco,
strange curving cupboards inlaid with mother of pearl, tortoiseshell, ebony, heaven knows
what; strange tall flamboyant chairs, from Italy, with sea– green brocade: astonishing
saints with wind–blown, richly–coloured carven garments and pink faces: shelves of weird
old Saxe and Capo di Monte figurines: and finally, a strange assortment of astonishing
pictures painted on the back of glass, done, probably in the early years of the nineteenth
century, or in the late eighteenth.
In this crowded and extraordinary interior she received Yvette, when the latter made a
stolen visit. A whole system of stoves had been installed into the cottage, every corner was
warm, almost hot. And there was the tiny rococco figurine of the Jewess herself, in a
perfect little frock, and an apron, putting slices of ham on the dish, while the great snow–
bird of a major, in a white sweater and grey trousers, cut bread, mixed mustard, prepared
coffee, and did all the rest. He had even made the dish of jugged hare which followed the
cold meats and caviare.
The silver and the china were really valuable, part of the bride's trousseau. The Major
drank beer from a silver mug, the little Jewess and Yvette had champagne in lovely
glasses, the Major brought in coffee. They talked away. The little Jewess had a burning
indignation against her first husband. She was intensely moral, so moral, that she was a
divorcée. The Major too, strange wintry bird, so powerful, handsome, too, in his way, but
