 Chapter 17 of Patricia Brent, Spinster This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Anna Simon. Patricia Brent, Spinster, by Herbert Jenkins, Chapter 17 Lady Peggy makes a friend. Once in the morning, as Patricia was sitting in the park, watching the promenaders, and feeling very lonely, she saw a coming across the grass towards her, Godfrey Elton, accompanied by a pretty dark girl in an amber costume and a black head. She bowed her acknowledgement of Elton's salute and watched the pair as they passed on in the direction of marble arch. Suddenly the girl stopped and turned. For a moment Elton stood irresolute. Then he also turned, and they both walked in Patricia's direction. Lady Peggy insisted that we should break in upon your solitude, said Elton, having introduced the two girls. You will forgive me, won't you? said Lady Peggy. But I so wanted to know you. You see, Peter has the reputation of being invulnerable. We're all quite breathless from our fruitless endeavours to entangle him, and I wanted to see what you were like. I'm afraid you'll find them quite commonplace, said Patricia, smiling. It was impossible to be annoyed with Lady Peggy. Her frankness was disarming, and her curiosity that of a child. I always say, public Lady Peggy, that there are only two men in London worth marrying, and then either of them will have me, although I've worked most terribly hard. Who are they? inquired Patricia. Oh, Gotti is one, she said, indicating Elton with a nod. And Peter's the other. They're both prepared to be brothers to me, but they're not sufficiently generous to save me from dying an old maid. I must apologise for inflicting Peggy upon you, Miss Brandt, said Elton. But when you get to know her, you may even like her. I'm not going to wait until I know her, said Patricia. Bravo! cried Lady Peggy, clapping her hands. That's a snap for you, Gotti, she said, then turning again to Patricia. I know we're going to be friends, and you can afford to be generous to a defeated rival. I must warn you against Lady Peggy, said Elton quietly. She's the most dangerous young woman. And now, Patricia, said Lady Peggy, I'm going to call you Patricia, and you must call me Peggy. I want you to do me a very great favour. Patricia looked at the girl, rather bewildered and breathless by the precipitancy with which he made friends. I'm sure I will, if I possibly can, she replied. I want you to come and lunch with us, said Lady Peggy. It's very kind of you, I shall be delighted some day, replied Patricia, conventionally. No, now, said Lady Peggy, this very day that ever is. I want you to meet Daddy. He's such a dear. Gotti will come, so you won't be lonely, she added. I'm afraid I've got—began, Patricia. Please don't be afraid you've got anything, pleaded Lady Peggy. If you've got an engagement, throw it over. Everybody throws over engagements from me. But—began, Patricia. Oh, please don't be tiresome, said Lady Peggy, screwing up her eyebrows. I shall have all I can do to persuade Gotti to come, and it's so exhausting. I will come with pleasure, said Elton, if only to protect Miss Brent from your overwhelming friendliness. Oh, you odious creature, cried Lady Peggy. Then, turning to Patricia, she added with mock tragedy in her voice. Oh, the love I've languished on that man, the gladness of the eyes I've turned upon him, the pressures of the hand I've been willing to bestow on him, and this is how he treats me. Then, with a sudden change, she added, But you will come, won't you? I do so want you to meet Daddy. If the truth must be told, said Elton, Peggy merely wants to be able to exploit you, as everybody is wanting to know about you and what you are like. Now she'll be a celebrity, and able to describe you in detail to all her many men friends, and to her women enemies. Lady Peggy deliberately turned her back upon Elton. Now we're going to have another little walk, and then we'll go and get our nosebags on. She announced. No, you're not going to walk between us. This to Elton. I want to be next to Patricia, she announced. Patricia felt bewildered by the suddenness with which Lady Peggy had descended upon her. She scarcely listened to the flow of small talk she kept up. She was conscious that Elton's hand was constantly at the salute, and that Lady Peggy seemed to be indulging in a series of continuous bows. Who? Do let's get away somewhere! cried Lady Peggy at length. My neck aches, and I feel my mouth will set in a silly grin. Why on earth do we know so many people, Goddy? Do you know? she erred mischievously. I'd love to have a big megaphone, and stand on a chair and cry out who you are. Then everybody would flock round, because they all want to know who it is that has captured Peter the Hermit, as we call him. She looked at Patricia appraisingly. I think I can understand now, she said. Understand what? said Patricia. What it is in you that attracts Peter? Patricia gasped. Really, she began. Yes, we girls have all been trying to make love to Peter and fuss over him, whereas you would rather snub him, and that's very good for Peter. It's just the sort of thing that would attract him. Then, with another sudden change, she turned to Elton and said, Goddy, in future I'm going to snub you, then perhaps you'll love me. Patricia laughed outright. She felt strongly drawn to this inconsequent child girl. She found herself wondering what would be the impression she would create upon the Galvenhouse Coterie, who would find all their social and moral virtues inverted by such directness of speech. She could see Miss Wangle's internal struggle, disapproval of Lady Peggy's personality mingling with respect for her rank. Oh, there's tan, Lady Peggy broke in upon Patricia's thoughts. Goddy, call to her, shout, wave your head. Haven't you got a whistle? But Lady Tanegra had seen the party and was coming towards them, accompanied by Mr. Triggs. Lady Peggy danced towards Lady Tanegra. Oh, tan, I've found her! She cried, nodding to Mr. Triggs, whom she appeared to know. Found whom? Enquired Lady Tanegra. Patricia, the captor of St. Anthony, and we're going to be friends, and she's coming to lunch with me to meet Daddy, and Goddy's coming too, so don't you dare to carry him off. Oh, Mr. Triggs, isn't it a lovely day? She cried, turning to Mr. Triggs, who, hat in hand, was mopping his brow. Beautiful, my dear, beautiful, he exclaimed, beaming upon her and turning to shake hands with Patricia. Well, my dear, how goes it? He inquired. Then, looking at her keenly, he added, Why, you're looking much better. Patricia smiled, conscious that the improvement in her looks was not a little due to Lady Peggy and her bright chatter. You've become such a gad about, Mr. Triggs, that you forget poor me, she said. Oh, no, he doesn't, broken Lady Peggy. He's always talking about you. Whenever I try to make love to him, he always drags you in. I've really come to hate you, Patricia, because you seem to come between me and all my love affairs. Oh, I wish we could find Peter, cried Lady Peggy suddenly. That would complete the party. Patricia hoped fervently that they would not come across bone. She saw that it would make the situation extremely awkward. And now we must dash off for lunch, cried Lady Peggy. Or we shall be late, and that it will be cross. She shook hands with Mr. Triggs, blew a kiss at Lady Tanagra, and, before Patricia knew it, she was walking with Lady Peggy and Elton in the direction of Curson Street. Patricia was in some awe of meeting the Duke of Gaetan. Here, too, she had encountered only this smaller political fry, friends and acquaintances of Mr. Bonser, who'd always treated her as a secretary. The Duke had been in the first coalition ministry, but had been forced to retire on account of a serious illness. Look whom I've caught! cried Lady Peggy, as she bubbled into the dining room, where some twelve or fourteen guests were in the process of seating themselves at the table. Look whom I've caught! Daddy! she addressed herself to a small, clean-shaven man with a beatling eyebrows and a broad intellectual head. It's the capture of Peter the Hermit! The Duke smiled and shook hands with Patricia. You must come and sit by me, he said, in a particularly sweet and well-modulated voice, which seemed to get the light to the somewhat stern and searching appearance of his eyes. Peter is a great friend of mine. Patricia was conscious of flushed cheeks as she took her seat next to the Duke. Later she discovered that these Sunday luncheons were always strictly informal, no order of presidents being observed. Young and old were invited, grave and gay. The talk was sometimes frivolous, sometimes serious. Sunday was, in the Duke's eyes, a day of rest, and conversation must follow the path of least resistance. Whilst the other guests were seating themselves, Patricia looked round the table with interest. She recognized a well-known cabinet minister and a bishop. Next to her on the other side was a man with hungry, searching eyes, whose fair hair was cropped so closely to his head as to be almost invisible. Later she learned that he was a Serbian patriot who had prepared a wonderful map of new Serbia, which he always carried with him. Elton had described it as the map that passed all understanding. It embraced Bulgaria, Romania, Transylvania, Montenegro, Greece, Albania, Bessarabia, and portions of other countries. It's a sort of game, Lady Peggy explained later. If you can escape without his having produced this map, then you've won, she added. At first the Duke diverted himself to Patricia, obviously with the object of placing her at her ease. She was fascinated by his voice. He had the reputation of being a brilliant talker, but Patricia decided that even if he had possessed the most commonplace ideas, he would have invested them with a peculiar interest on account of the musical tones in which he expressed them. He was a man of remarkable dignity of bearing, and Patricia decided that she would be able to feel very much afraid of him. In answer to a question, Patricia explained that she'd only met Lady Peggy that morning. And what do you think of Peggy's whirlwind methods? Asked the Duke with a smile. I think they're quite irresistible, replied Patricia. She makes friends quicker than anyone I ever met, and keeps them longer, said the Duke. Presently the conversation turned on the question of the re-afforestation of Great Britain, springing out of a remark made by the cabinet minister to the Duke. Soon the two, aided by a number of other guests, were deep in the intricacies of politics. During a lull in the conversation the Duke turned to Patricia. I'm afraid this is all very dull for you, Miss Brent, he remarked pleasantly. On the contrary, said Patricia, I'm greatly interested. Interested in politics? Questioned the Duke with a tinge of surprise in his voice. Gradually Patricia found herself drawn into the conversation. For the first time in her life she found her study of blue books and her knowledge of statistics, of advantage, and news. The cabinet minister lent forward with interest. The other guests had seized their local conversation to listen to what it was that was so clearly interesting their host in the cabinet minister. In Patricia's remarks there was the freshness of unconvention. The old political war-horses saw how things appeared to an intelligent contemporary who was not trampled by tradition and parliamentary procedure. Suddenly Patricia became aware that she had monopolized the conversation and that everyone was listening to her. She flushed and stopped. Please go on, said the cabinet minister. Don't stop, it's most interesting. But Patricia had become self-conscious. However, the Duke with great tact picked up their thread and soon the conversation became general. As they rose from the table the Duke whispered to Patricia. Don't hurry away, please, I want to have a chat with you after the others have gone. As they went to the drawing-room Lady Peggy came up to Patricia and linking her arm in hers said, I'm dreadfully afraid of you now, Patricia. Why, everybody was positively drinking in your words. Wherever did you learn so much? You cannot be secretary to a rising politician, said Patricia with a smile, without learning a lot of statistics. I have to read up all sorts of things about pigs and babies and beetroot and street noises and all sorts of objectionable things. What do you think of her, Gotti? cried Lady Peggy to Elton as he joined them. I'm afraid she has made me feel very ignorant, replied Elton. Just as you, Peggy, always make me feel very wise. In the drawing-room the Serbian attached himself to Patricia and produced his map of obliteration, as the Duke had once called it, explaining to her at great length how nearly all the towns and cities in Europe were for the most part populated by Serbs. It was obvious to her, from the respect with which she was treated, that her remarks at luncheon had made a great impression. When most of the other guests had departed, the Duke walked over to her, and dismissing Peggy entered into a long conversation on political and parliamentary matters. He was finally interrupted by Lady Peggy. Look here, Daddy. If you steal my friends, I shall— She paused, then turned to Elton, she said. What shall I do, Gotti? Well, you might marry and leave him, suggested Elton helpfully. That's it. I will marry and leave you all alone, Daddy. Can't we agree to share, Miss Brent? suggested the Duke, smiling at Patricia. Isn't he a dear and quiet Lady Peggy of Patricia? When other men proposed to me and quite a lot have, she added, with almost childish simplicity. I always mentally compare them with Daddy, and then, of course, I know I don't want them. That's my one reason, Peggy, for not proposing, said Elton. I could never enter the lists with the Duke. You're a pair of ridiculous children, laughed Duke. In response to a murmur from Patricia that she must be going, Lady Peggy insisted that she should first come upstairs and see her den. The den was a room of orderly disorder, which seemed to possess the freshness and charm of its owner. Lady Peggy looked at Patricia, and knew respect in her eyes. You must be frightfully clever, she said, with unaccustomed seriousness. I wish I were like that. You see, I should be more of a companion to Daddy, if I were. I think you're an ideal companion for him as you are, Sir Patricia. Oh, he's so wonderful, said Lady Peggy, dreamily. You know, I'm not always such a fool as I appear, she added, quite seriously. And I do sometimes think of other things than frills and flounces and chocolates. Then, with a sudden change of mood, she cried. Wasn't it clever of me, capturing you to-day? As soon as you're gone, Daddy will tell me what he thinks of you, and I shall feel so self-important. As Patricia looked about the room, charmed with its dainty freshness, her eyes lighted upon a large, metal tea-tree. Lady Peggy, following her gaze, cried, Oh, the magic carpet! The what? inquired Patricia. That's the magic carpet. Come, I'll show you. And, seizing it, she proceeded Patricia to the top of the stairs. Now sit on it, she cried, and took a gun down. It's priceless. But I couldn't. Yes, you could. Everybody does, cried Lady Peggy. Not quite knowing what she was doing, Patricia found herself forced down upon the tea-tree, and the next thing she knew, she was speeding down the stairs at a terrific rate. Just as she arrived in the hall with flushed cheeks and a flurry of skirts, the door of the library opened, and the duke and Elton came out. Patricia gathered herself together, and with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes stood like a child expecting her buke, instead of which the duke merely smiled, turning to Elton he remarked. So Miss Brent has received her birth certificate. As he spoke, the butler with sedate decorum picked up the tray and carried it into his pantry, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for guests to top a gun down the front staircase. To ride on Peggy's magic carpet as she calls it, said the duke, is to be admitted to the household as a friend. Come again soon, he added, as he shook hands in passing. Any Sunday at lunch you're always sure to catch us. We never give special invitations to the friends we want, do we, Peggy, and I want to have some more talks with you. As Patricia and Elton walked towards the park, he explained that Lady Peggy's tea-tree had figured in many little comedies, bishops, cabinet ministers, great generals and emperors had all descended the stairs in the way Patricia had. In fact, he added, when the duke was in the cabinet, it was the youngest and brightest collection of ministers in the history of the country. Every one of them was devoted to Peggy, and I think they would have made war or peace at her command. When Patricia arrived at Galvin House, she was conscious of the world having changed since the morning. All her gloom had been dispelled, the drawn look had passed from her face, and she felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Patricia Brandt-Spinster This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Patricia Brandt-Spinster by Herbert Jenkins Chapter 18 The Air-Aid Miss Brandt, please get up. There is an air-aid. Mechanically, Patricia sat up in bed and listened. Outside, a police whistle was droning its raucous warning. Within, there was the sound of frightened whispers and the noise of the opening and shutting of doors. Suddenly, there was a shriek followed by a low murmur of several voices. The sound of the police whistle continued, gradually dying away in the distance, and the noises within the house seized. Patricia strained her ears to catch the first sound of the defensive guns. She had no intention of getting up for a false alarm. For some minutes there was silence. Then came a slight murmur, half-sob, half-sigh, as if London were breathing heavily in her sleep. Another followed. Then half a dozen in quick succession, growing louder with every report. Suddenly came the scream of a whist bang and the thunder of a large gun. Soon the orchestra was in full swing. Still, Patricia listened. She was fascinated. Why did guns sound exactly as if large planks were being dropped? Why did the report seem as if something were bouncing? Suddenly, a terrific report, a sound as if a giant plank had been dropped and had bounced. A neighbouring gun had given tongue. Another followed. She jumped out of bed and proceeded to pull on her stockings. There was a gentle tapping at her door, not the peremptory summons that had awakened her, and which, by the voice that had accompanied it, she recognised the sound of Mrs. Craft Moulson. What is it? She called out. It is me, Miss! Patricia could scarcely recognise, in the terrified accents, the voice of Gustave. It's a raid! Oh, Miss! Please, come down! All right, Gustave. I shall be down in a minute, replied Patricia, and she heard a flurry of retreating footsteps. Gustave was descending into safety. There was about him nothing of the room and sentry. Patricia proceeded with her toilette, hastened in spite of herself by a tremendous crash which she recognised as a bomb. At Galvin House, raid instructions had been posted in each room. Guests were instructed to hasten with all possible speed downstairs to the basement kitchen, where tea and coffee would be served, and, if necessary, bandages and first aid applied. Miss Sigmund had made a superficial study of red crosswork from a shelling manual, but, as according to her own confession, she fainted at the sight of blood, no very great reliance was placed in her ministrations. As Patricia entered the kitchen, her first inclination was to laugh at the amazing variety, not only of toilettes, but of expressions that met her eyes. Self-confident in the knowledge that she was fully dressed, she looked about her with interest. Oh, here you are, Miss Brent! exclaimed Mrs. Craft Moulton, who was busily engaged in preparing the tea and coffee of the raid instructions. Gustav would insist on going up to call you a second time. We were— Mrs. Craft Moulton broke off her sentence and dashed for the guest-tove, where the milk was boiling over. Oh, miss! Patricia turned to Gustav. She bit her lip fiercely to restrain the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of the major dermal of Galvin House. Above a pair of black trousers tucked in the tops of unlaced boots and from which the braces flapped aimlessly was visible the upper part of a red flannel night-shirt. The remainder was bestowed beneath the upper part of the trousers, giving to his figure a curiously knobbly appearance. His face was leaden-colored, and his upstanding hair more erect than ever, whilst in his eyes was fear. He was trembling in every limb, and his jaw shook as he uttered his expression of relief at the sight of Patricia. She smiled at him, then suddenly remembering that, in spite of his terror, he had voluntarily gone up to the top of the house to call her, she felt something strangely uncomfortable at the back of her throat. Come along, Gustav! she cried brightly. Let us help get the tea. I'm so thirsty! From that moment Gustav appeared to take himself in hand, and say for a violent start at the more vigorous reports seemed to have overcome his terror. As Patricia proceeded to assist Mrs. Craft Moulton, the veritable heroine in a pink flannel wrapper, she took stock of her fellows. Miss Wangle was engaged in prayer and tears, her wig was oary, her face drawn in yellow, and her clothes the garb of advanced maidenhood. On her feet were bedsocks, half thrust into felt slippers. From beneath a black quilted dressing-gown, peeped with verges-pride, the long cloth of a night-dress of Victorian severity. Mrs. Moskrup-Smith was in crawl-papers, and a faded blue kimono that allowed no suggestion to escape of the form beneath. Miss Sickham had seized the gray raincoat, above which a forest of crawl-papers looked strangely out of place. Her fingers moved restlessly. The two top buttons of the raincoat were missing, displaying a wealth of blue ribbon and open work that none had suspected in her. The lateness at which the ribbon and open work began gave an interesting demonstration in feminine bone structure. Mr. Sefton was splendid in a purple dressing-gown with orange cord and tassels, and red and white striped pajamas beneath. Mr. Sefton had chosen his raid-costume with elaborate care, but the suddenness of the alarm had not allowed of the arrangement of his hair, most of which hung down behind in a sandy cascade. His manner was the forced heroic. He was smoking a cigarette with the two obvious nonchalance to deceive. The heroes of Mr. Sefton's imagination always lit cigarettes when facing death. They were of the type that seizes a revolver when the ship is sinking, and with one foot placed negligently upon the capstan, Mr. Sefton had not the most remote idea of what a capstan was like, shouted, Women and children first! He walked about the kitchen with what he meant to be a smile upon his pale lips. The cigarette he found in nuisance. If he held it between his lips, the smoke got in his eyes, and made them stream with water. If, on the other hand, he held it between his fingers, it emphasized the shaking of his hand. He compromised by letting it go out between his lips, arguing that the effect was the same. Mr. Bolton had done this fest and velvet smoking jacket above creased white pyjama trousers that refused to meet the tops of his felt slippers. Mr. Bolton continued to make jokes for the same reason that Mr. Sefton smoked a cigarette. Mr. Cordell was negative in a big ulster with a hem of nightshed beneath, leaving about eight inches of fleshless shin before his carpet slippers with the third tops were reached. He sat gazing with unseeing eyes at the cook hurled up opposite, moaning as she held her heart with a fat, dirty hand. Mrs. Barnes, the victim of indecision, had leapt straight out of bed, gathered her clothes in her arms, and had flown to safety. She walked about the kitchen aimlessly, dropping and retrieving various garments, which she stuffed back again into the bundle she carried under her arm. Mrs. Grasp Bolton was practical and courageous. Her one thought was to prepare the promised refreshments. Her staff, with the exception of Gustave, was useless, and she was grateful to Patricia for her assistance. Outside, pandemonium was raging. The noise of the barrage was diabolical. The bouncing of the heavy guns, the screams of the whiz banks, the cackle of machine-guns from airplanes overhead, all seemed to tell of death and chaos. Suddenly the puny sound of guns was drowned in one gigantic uproar. For a moment the place was plunged in darkness, then the electric light shutted into being again. The glass flew from the windows, the house rocked as if uncertain whether or not it should collapse. Ms. Wangle slipped onto her knees, her wick slipped onto her left ear. Oh, my God! screamed the cook, as if to ensure exclusive rights to the deity's attention. Jenny, the housemaid, entirely unconscious of her nightdress, was her sole garment, threw herself flat on her face. Mrs. Grasp Bolton, who was pouring out tea, let the teapot slip from her hand, smashing the cup and pouring the contents onto the table. Gustav's knees refused their office, and he sank down, grasping with both hands the edge of the table. Ms. Barnes dropped her clothes without troubling to retrieve them. Suddenly there was a terrifying scream outside, then a motor-car drew up, and the sound of men's voices was heard. Still the guns thundered, Patricia felt herself trembling. For a moment a rush of blood seemed to suffocate her. Then she found herself gazing at Ms. Wangle, wondering whether she were praying to God or to the bishop. She laughed in a voice unrecognizable to herself. She looked about the kitchen. Mrs. Sefton had sunk down upon a chair, the cigarette still attached to his blotless lower lip, his arms hanging limply down beside him. Mr. Cordell was looking about him as if dazed, whilst Mr. Bolton was gazing at the glassless window frames, as if expecting some apparition to appear. It's a bomb next door! gasped Mrs. Grasp Morton. Then, remembering her responsibilities, she called Patricia's eye. There was appeal in her glance. Come along, Gustav! cried Patricia, in a voice that she still found it difficult to recognize as her own. Gustav, still on his knees, looked round and up at her, with the eyes of a damp animal that knows it is about to be tortured. Gustav, get up and help with the tea! said Patricia. A look of wonder crept into Gustav's eyes at the unaccustomed tone of Patricia's voice. Slowly he dragged himself up, as if testing the capacity of each knee to support the weight of his body. There's Brandy there, said Mrs. Grasp Morton, pointing to a spirit case she had brought down with her. Here's the key. Patricia took the key from her trembling hand, noting that her own was shaking violently. Mrs. Morton, she whispered, you're splendid! Mrs. Morton smiled wently, and Patricia felt that in that moment she had got to know the woman beneath the boarding-housekeeper. Shall we put it in their tea, inquired Patricia, holding the decanter of Brandy? Mrs. Grasp Morton nodded. Now, Gustav, cried Patricia, make everybody drink tea. Gustav looked at his own hands, and then down at his knees, as if in doubt as to whether he possessed the power of making them obey his wishes. Ms. Wangle was still on her knees. The cook was appealing to the Almighty with tiresome reiteration. Jenny had developed hysterics, and was seated on the ground, drumming with her heels upon the floor. Ms. Sycam gazing at her, as if she'd been some phenomenon from another world. Mr. Bolton had valiantly pulled himself together, and was endeavouring to persuade Mrs. Barnes to accept the various garments that he was picking up from the floor. Her only acknowledgement of his gallantry was to gaze at him, with dull, unseeing eyes, and to wag her head from side to side as of in repudiation of the ownership of what he was striving together to take from him. Mr. Sefton, valiant to the end, was with trembling fingers endeavouring to extract a cigarette from his case, apparently unconscious, that one was still attached to his lip. Mrs. Graskmoulton, Patricia, and Gustave set themselves to work to pour tea and brandy down the throats of the others. Mr. Sefton took his mechanically, and put it to his lips, oblivious of the cigarette that still dangled there. Finding an obstruction he put up his hand, and pulled the cigarette away, and with it a portion of the skin of his lip. For the rest of the evening he was dabbing his mouth with his pocket-handkerchief. Gustave had valiantly gone to the assistance of Jenny, and was endeavouring to pour tea through her closed teeth, with the result that it streamed down the neck of her night-dress. The effect was the same, however. As she felt the hot fluid on her chest, she screamed, stopped drumming with her heels, and looked about the kitchen. You scolded me, you beast! she cried, where at Gustave, who was sitting on his heels, started and fell backwards, bringing Miss Sickham down on top of him, together with her cup of tea. Mrs. Graskmoulton was ministering to Miss Wangle and Miss Moskope-Smith, Mr. Bolton and Mr. Coral were both drinking neat brandy out of tea-cups. Outside, the guns still thundered and screamed. Patricia went to the assistance of the cook. Kneeling down, she persuaded her to drink a cup of tea and brandy, which had the effect of silencing her appeals to the Almighty. For an hour the guests of Galvin House waited, exactly what for no one knew. Then the noise of the firing began to die away in waves of sound. There would be a few minutes' silence, but for the distant rumble of guns, then suddenly a spurred of firing as if the guns were reluctant to forget their former anger. Another period of silence would follow. Then two or three isolated reports, like the snarl of dogs that had been dragged from their prey. Finally, quiet. For a further half-hour Galvin House waited, praying that the attack would not be renewed. There were little spurts of conversation. Mr. Sefton was slowly returning to the foot on the capstan attitude, and actually had a cigarette alight. Mr. Bolton and Mr. Cordell were speculating as to where the bomb had fallen. Mrs. Graskmorton was wondering if the government would pay promptly for the damage to her glass. Outside there were sounds of life and movement, cars were throbbing and passing to and fro, and men's voices could be heard. Suddenly there was a loud peal of the street doorbell. All looked at each other in consternation. Gustav looked about him as if he had lost a puppy. Mrs. Graskmorton looked at Gustav. Gustav, said Patricia, surprised at her own calm. Gustav looked at her for a moment, then, remembering his duties, went slowly to the door, listening the while as if expecting a further bombardment to break out. With the exception of Miss Wango and the cook, everybody was on the key view of expectation. It's the police, suggested Mrs. Graskmorton with conviction. Or the ambulance. Aventured Miss Sikkim in a trembling voice. They're collecting the dead, she added optimistically. All eyes were riveted upon the kitchen door. Steps were heard descending the stairs. A moment later the door was thrown open, and Gustav in a voice strangely unlike his own, announced. His lordship, madame. Boen entered the kitchen and cast a swift look about him. A light of relief passed over his face as he saw Patricia. Some instinct that she could neither explain nor control caused her to go over to him, and before she knew what was taking place both her hands were in his. Thank God! he breathed. I was afraid it was this house. I heard Obama dropped here. Oh, my dear! I've been in hell! There was something in his voice that thrilled her as she had never been thrilled before. She looked up at him, smiling. Then suddenly, with a great content, she remembered that she had dressed herself with care. Boen looked about him, and seeing Mrs. Graskmorton went over and shook hands. She's a regular heroine, Peter, said Patricia, unconscious that she had used his name. She's been so splendid. Mrs. Graskmorton smiled at Patricia, again her human smile. Oh, go away! Make him go away! It was Mrs. Moskope Smith who spoke. Her words had an electrifying effect upon everyone. Ms. Wangle sat up and made fever-jandavas to straighten her wig. Jenny, the housemaid, looked round for cover that was nowhere available. Mrs. Sickham strove to minimize the exhibition of feminine bone structure. Mrs. Bonds made a dive for Mr. Bolton, who was still holding various of her garments that he had retrieved. These she seized from him as if he'd been a pickpocket, and thrust him under her arm. Oh, please go away! moaned the cook. Come upstairs, Sir Patricia, as she led the way out of the kitchen to the relief of those whose reawakened modesty saw in Bonds presence an outrage to decorum. Switching on the lights in the lounge, Patricia threw herself into a chair. She was beginning to feel the reaction. Why did you come? she asked. I heard that a bomb had fallen in this street, and, well, I had to come. I was never in such a funk in all my life. How did you get round here? Did you bring the car? No, I couldn't get the car out. I walked it, said Bone briefly. That was very sweet of you, Sir Patricia, gratefully, looking up at him in a way she had never looked at him before. And now I think you must be going. We must all go to bed again. Yes, the all-clear will sound soon, I think, replied Bone. They moved out into the hall. For a moment they stood looking at each other. Then Bone took both her hands in his. I am so glad, Patricia, he said, gazing into her eyes. Then suddenly he bent down and kissed her full on her lips. Dropping her hands and without another word he picked up his cap and let himself out, leaving Patricia standing gazing in front of her. For a moment she stood, then turning as one in a dream, walked slowly upstairs to her room. I wonder why I let him do that, she murmured, as she stood in front of the mirror and pinning her hair. End of Chapter 18. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon, Patricia Brand, Spinster by Herbert Jenkins, Chapter 19, Galvin House After The Raid The next day, and for many days, Galvin House abandoned itself to the raid. The air was full of rumours of the appalling casualties, resulting from the bomb that had been dropped to the next street. No one knew anything. Everyone had heard something. The horrors confided to each other by the residents at Galvin House would have kept the grand cologne in realism for a generation. Silent herself, Patricia watched with interest the ferment around her. With the exception of Mrs. Quask Morton, all seemed to desire most of all to emphasise their own attitude of splendid intellectual calm during the raid. They spoke scornfully of acquaintances who had flown from London because of the danger from bomb-dropping gothers. They derided the Thames Valley aliens who talked heroically and patriotically about standing their bit of bombing. In short, Galvin House had become a harbour of heroism. Mrs. Quask Morton, who had shown her calmness and courage that none of the others seemed to recognise, had nothing to say except about her broken glass. On this subject, however, she was eloquent. Ms. Wangle managed to convey to those who would listen that her own safety and in fact that of Galvin House was directly due to the intercession of the bishop, who, when alive, was particularly noted for the power and sustained eloquence of his prayers. Mr. Bolton was frankly sceptical. If the Auguste Prelate was out to save Galvin House, he suggested it wasn't quite cricket to let them drop a bomb in the next street. Everyone was extremely critical of everyone else. Mr. Bolton said things about Mrs. Barnes and her clothes that made Miss Sicken blush, particularly about the nose, where, with her, emotion always first manifested itself. Mrs. Sefton had permanently returned to the women and children first phase, and, as two secrets were missing from his case, he was convinced that he had acquitted himself with that air of reckless bravado that endeared a man to women. He talked pittingly and tolerantly of Gustave's obvious terror. Mr. Bolton saw in the adventure material for jokes for months to come. He laboured that the subject would such misguided industry that Patricia felt she almost hated him. Some of his illusions, particularly to the state of sartorial indecision in which the maids had sought cover, were not quite nice, as Mrs. Moskrup-Smith expressed it to Mrs. Hamilton, who returned from a visit the day following. At breakfast everyone had talked, and in consequence everyone who worked was late for work, the general opinion being what was the use of a raid unless she could be late for work, punctuality on such occasions being regarded as the waste of an opportunity, and a direct rebuke to Providence who had placed it there. Patricia did not take part in the general babel, beyond pointing out, when Gustave was coming under discussion, that it was he who had gone to the top of the house to call her. She looked meaningly at Mr. Bolton and Mr. Sefton, who had the grace to appear a little ashamed of themselves. When Patricia returned in the evening, she found Lady Tenegra awaiting her in the lounge, literally bombarded with different accounts of what had happened, all narrated in the best eye-witness manner of the alarmist press. Following the precept of Charles Lamb, Galvin House had apparently striven to correct the bad impression made through lateness in beginning work by leaving early. It was obvious that Lady Tenegra had made herself extremely popular. Everyone was striving to gain her ear for his or her story of personal experiences. Ah, here you are, cried Lady Tenegra, as Patricia entered. I hear you behaved like a heroine last night. Mrs. Graspmorton nodded her head with conviction. Mrs. Morton was the real heroine, said Patricia. She was splendid. Mrs. Graspmorton flushed. To be praised before so distinguished a caller was almost embarrassing, especially as no one had felt it necessary to comment upon her share in the evening's excitement. Come up with me while I take off my things, said Patricia, as she moved towards the door. She saw that any private talk between herself and Lady Tenegra would be impossible in the lounge with Galvin House in its present state of ferment. In Patricia's room Lady Tenegra subsided into a chair with a sigh. I feel as if I were a celebrity arriving at New York, she laughed. They're rather excited, smiled Patricia. But then we live such a humdrum life here, the expression is Mrs. Moskrup-Smiths, and mattress should be forgiven them. A book could be written on the boarding-house mind, I think. It moves in a vicious circle. If someone would only break out and give the poor deers something to talk about. Didn't you do that? inquired Lady Tenegra, slyly. Patricia smiled warily. I take second place now to the raid. Think of living here for the next few weeks. They will think raid, read raid, talk raid, and dream raid. She shut it. Thank heavens I'm off tomorrow. Off tomorrow? Lady Tenegra raised her eyes in interrogation. Yes, to Eastbourne for a fortnight's holiday, as provided for in the arrangement existing between one Patricia Brandt and Arthur Bonser Esquire MP. It's part of the wages of the sin of secretorship. Patricia sighed. I hope you'll enjoy it. Please don't be conventional, interrupted Patricia. I shall not enjoy it in the least. Within twenty-four hours I shall long to be back again. I shall get up in the morning and shall go to bed at night. In between I shall walk a bit, read a bit, get my nose red. Thank heavens it doesn't peel, and become bored to extinction. One thing I won't do, that is wear open work frocks. The sun shall not print cheap insertion kisses upon Patricia Brandt. You're quite sure that it is a holiday? Lady Tenegra looked up quizzically at Patricia as she stood gazing out of the window. A holiday? repeated Patricia, looking round. It sounded just a little depressing, said Lady Tenegra. It will be exactly what it sounds, Patricia retorted. Only depressing is not quite the right word. It's too polite. You don't know what it is to be lonely, Tenegra, and live at Galvin House, and try to whore or push a politician into a rising posture. It reminds me of Carlisle in the Dutch. There was a note of fierce protest in her voice. You have all the things that I want, and I wonder I don't scratch your face and tear your hair out. We are all primitive in our instincts, really. Then she laughed. Well, I had to cry out to someone, and shall feel better. It's rather a beastly world for some of us, you know, but I suppose I ought to be spanked for being ungrateful. Do you know why I've come? inquired Lady Tenegra, thinking it wise to change the subject. Patricia shook her head. A more conceited person might have suggested that it was to see me, she said, demurely. To apologise for Peter, said Lady Tenegra. He disobeyed orders, and I'm very angry with him. Patricia flushed at the memory of their good night. For a few seconds she stood silent, looking out of the window. I think it was rather sweet of him, she said, without looking around. Lady Tenegra smiled slightly. Then I may forgive him, you think, she inquired. Patricia turned and looked at her. Lady Tenegra met the gaze innocently. He wanted to write to you and send some flowers and chocolates, but I absolutely forbade it. We almost had our first quarrel, she added, mendaciously. For the space of a second Patricia hated Lady Tenegra. She would have liked to turn and rend her for interfering in a matter that could not possibly be regarded as any concern of hers. The feeling, however, was only momentary, and when Lady Tenegra rose to go, Patricia was as cordial as ever. From Galvin House Lady Tenegra drove through the quadrant. Peter, she cried, as she entered the room and threw herself into an easy chair. If ever I again endeavored to divert true love from its normal, how is she? interrupted bone. Now you've spoiled it, cried Lady Tenegra, and it was, spoiled what? demanded bone. My beautiful phrase about true love and its normal channel, and I've been saying it over to myself all the way from Galvin House. She looked reproachfully at her brother. How is Patricia? demanded bone eagerly. Fair to moderately fair, rain later I should describe her, replied Lady Tenegra, helping herself to a cigarette which bone lighted. She's going away. Good heavens, where? cried Bone. Eastbone. When? Tomorrow. Damn! My dear Peter remarked Lady Tenegra lazily. This primitive profanity ill becomes. Please don't rock me, Tan, he pleaded. I've had a rotten time lately. There was helpless and hopeless pain in Bone's voice that caused Lady Tenegra to spring up from her chair and go over to him. Carry on, old boy. She cried softly as she caressed his coat sleeve. It's your only chance. You're going to win. I must see her, blurted out Bone. If you do, you'll spoil everything, announced Lady Tenegra with conviction. But last night began Bone, and paused. Last night, I think, said Lady Tenegra, was a master's stroke. She's touched. It's taken us forward at least a week. But look here, Tan, said Bone gloomily. You told me to leave it all in your hands, and you make me treat her rottenly. Then you say, that you know about as much of how to make a woman like Patricia fall in love with you as an ostrich does of geology, said Lady Tenegra calmly. But what will she think, demanded Bone? At present she's thinking that Eastbone will be a nightmare of loneliness. I'll run down and see her, announced Bone. If you do, Peter, there was a note of warning in Lady Tenegra's voice. All right, he conceded gloomily. I'll give you another week, and then I'll go my own way. Peter, if you were smaller and I were bigger, I think I should spank you, laughed Lady Tenegra. Then with great seriousness she said, I want you to marry her, and I'm going the only way to work to make her let you. Do try and trust me, Peter. Bone looked down at her with a smile, touched by the look in her eyes. For a moment his arm rested across her shoulders. Then he pushed her towards the door. Clear out, Tene. I'm not fit for a bear pit tonight. The Bones were never demonstrative with one another. For half an hour Bones had smoking one cigarette after another until he was interrupted by the entrance of Peel, who, after a comprehensive glance round the room, proceeded to administer here and there those deft touches that emphasise a patient and orderly mind. Bone watched him as he moved about on the balls of his feet. Have you ever been to Eastbourne, Peel? inquired Bone presently. Just why he asked the question he could not have said. Only once, my lord, replied Peel, as he replaced the full ashtray on the table by Bone with a clean one. There was a note in his voice implying that nothing would ever tempt him to go there again. You don't like it? suggested Bone. I disliked it intensely, my lord, replied Peel, as he refolded a copy of the Times. Why? It has unpleasant associations, my lord, was the reply. Bone smiled. After a moment's silence he continued. Been sowing wild oats there? No, my lord, not exactly. Well, if it's not too private, sir Bone, tell me what happened. At the moment I am particularly interested in the place. Peel gazed reproachfully at the copy of the sphere, which had managed in some strange way to get its leaves dog-eared. As he proceeded to smooth them out he continued. It was when I was young, my lord, I was engaged to be married. I thought her a most excellent young woman in every way suitable. She went down to Eastbourne for a holiday. He paused. Well, there doesn't seem much wrong in that, said Bone. From Eastbourne she wrote, saying that she had changed her mind, proceeded Peel. The devil she did, exclaimed Bone. And what did she do? I went down to reason with her, my lord, said Peel. There's no one reason with a woman, Peel, inquired Bone with a smile. I was very young then, my lord, not more than thirty-two. Peel's tone was apologetic. I discovered that she had received an offer of marriage from another. Heart-luck, murmured Bone. Not at all, my lord, really, so Peel philosophically. I discovered that she had re-engaged herself to a butcher, a most offensive fellow. His language, when I expostulated with him, was incredibly coarse, and I'm sure he used marrow for his hair. And what did he do? inquired Bone. I had taken a return ticket, my lord. I came back to London. Bone laughed. I'm afraid you couldn't have been very badly hit, Peel, or you would not have been able to take it quite so philosophically. I've never allowed my private affairs to interfere with my professional duties, my lord, replied Peel anxiously. For five minutes Bone smoked in silence. So you do not believe in marriage, he said at length. I would not say that, my lord, but I do not think it's suitable for a man of temperament such as myself. I have known marriage is quite successful, where too much was not required of the contracting parties. But don't you believe in love, inquired Bone? Love, my lord, is like a disease. If you are on the lookout for it, you catch it. If you ignore it, it does not trouble you. I was once with a gentleman who was very nervous about microbes. He would never eat anything that had not been cooked, and yet everything about him disinfected. He even disinfected me, he added, as of improved with the extreme eccentricity of his late employer. So I suppose you despise me for having fallen in love and contemplating marriage, said Bone with a smile. There are always exceptions, my lord, responded Peel tactfully. I have prepared the bath. Peel remarked Bone as he rose and stretched himself. Disinfected or not disinfected, you are safe from the microbe of romance. I hope so, my lord, responded Peel as he opened the door. I wonder if history will repeat itself, murmured Bone as he walked through his bedroom into the bathroom. I, too, hate Eastbourne. Before she had been at Eastbourne twenty-four hours, Patricia was convinced that she had made a mistake in going there. With no claims upon her time, the restlessness that had developed in London increased until it became almost unbearable. The hotel at which she was staying was little more than a glorified boarding house, full of the most jungly of jungle people, as she explicit to herself. Their well-meant and kindly efforts to engage her in their pursuits and pleasures she received with apathetic negation. At length her fellow-guests, seeing that she was determined not to respond to their overtures, left her severely alone. The men were the last to desist. She came to dislike the pleasure-seekers about her and grew critical of everything she saw—the retinas of the women's faces, the assumed youthfulness of the elderly man, the shapelessness of matrons who seemed to delight in bright open-work blouses and juvenile hats. She remembered Elton's remark that fashion uncovers a multitude of shins. The shins exposed at Eastbourne were, she decided, sufficient to undermine one's belief in the early chapters of Genesis. At one time she would have been amused at the types around her and their various conceptions of one crowded hour of glorious life. As it was, everything seemed sordid and trivial. Why should people lose all sense of dignity and proportion at a set period of the year? It was, she decided, almost as bad as being a hare. All she wanted was to be alone, she told herself. Yet as soon as she had discovered some secluded spot and had settled herself down to read, the old restless inspector and fight against it as she might, she was forced back again to the hands of men. For the first few days she watched eagerly for letters. None came. She would return to the hotel several times a day, look at the letter-rec, then, to hide her disappointment, make a pretence of having returned for some other purpose. Why had not Bone written, she asked herself. Then, a moment after, she strove to convince herself that he had forgotten, or at least, that she was only an episode in his life. His sudden change from eagerness to indifference caused her to flush with humiliation. Yet he had gone to Galvin House during the raid to assure himself of her safety. Why had he not written after what had occurred? Perhaps Aunt Adelaide was right about men after all. Patricia wrote to Lady Tenegra, Mrs. Hamilton, Lady Peggy, Mr. Triggs, even to Miss Sycambe. In due course, answers arrived, but in only Miss Sycambe's letter was there any reference to Bone, a gush of sentiment about how happy you must be, dear Miss Brent, with Lord Bone running down to see you every other day. I know, she added, with maidenly pressions. Patricia laughed. Mr. Triggs committed himself to nothing more than two and three-quarter pages, mainly about his daughter and A.B. Miss Triggs was not at its best as a correspondent. Lady Tenegra ran to four pages, but as her handwriting was large, five lines filling a page, her letter was disappointing. Lady Peggy was the most productive. In the course of twelve pages of spontaneity, she told Patricia that the Duke and the Cabinet Minister had almost quarreled about her, Patricia. Peter has been to lunch with us, and daddy has told him how lucky he is, and how wonderful you are. If Peter is not very careful, I shall have you presented to me as a stepmother. Wouldn't it be priceless? she wrote. Oh, what am I writing? She ended with a Duke's love, and an insistence that Patricia should lunch at Cousin Street the first Sunday after her return. Patricia found Lady Peggy's letter charming. She was pleased to know that she had made a good impression, and was admired by the right people. Twenty-four hours, however, found her once more thrown back into the trough of her own despondency. Instinctively, she began to count the days until this dire compulsion of infertile days should end. She could not very well return to London and say that she was tired of holiday-making. Calvin House would put its own construction upon her action and words, and whatever that construction might be, it was safe to assume that it would be an unpleasant one. There were moments when a slight uplifting of the veil enabled her to see herself as she must appear to others. Patricia, she exclaimed one morning to her reflection in a rather dubious mirror, you're a cumburger of the earth, and furthermore you've got a beastly temper, and she jabbed a pin through her head and partly into her head. As the days passed, she found herself wondering what was the earliest day she could return. If she made it the Friday night, would it arouse suspicion? She decided that it would and settled to leave Eastbourne on the Saturday afternoon. As the train steamed out of the station, she made a grimace in the direction of the town, just as an inoffensive and prematurely bold little man opposite looked up from his paper. He gave Patricia one startled look through his gold-rimmed spectacles, and for the rest of the journey buried himself behind his paper, fearful as Patricia should make another face at him, as he explained to his mother that evening. She's come home in a nice temper, was Miss Wengel's diagnosis of the mood in which Patricia reached Galvin House. Gustave regarded her with anxious concern. The first dinner drove her almost mad. The raid, as a topic of conversation, was on the wane, although Mr Bolton worked at it nobly, and Patricia found herself looked upon to supply the necessary material for the evening's amusement. What had she done? Where had she been? Had she bathed? Were the dresses pretty? How many times had Bolton been down? Had she met any nice people? Was it true that the costumes the women would disgraceful? At last, with a forced laugh, Patricia told them that she must have noticed of such questions, and everybody had looked at her in surprise, until Mr Bolton's laugh rang out, and he explained the parliamentary illusion. When, at last, under pretence of being tired, she was able to escape to her room, she felt that another five minutes would have turned her brain. Sunday dawned, and with it the old panorama of iterations unfolded itself. Mr Bolton's velvet coat and fez, Mr Cordell's carpet slippers with the fur tops, Mrs Barnes indecision, Mr Sefton's genial and romantic optimism, Miss Sickham's sumptuary excesses, all presented themselves in due sequence, just as they had done for. Was it centuries, Patricia asked herself? To crown all, it was a roast pork sundae, and the reek of onions preparing for the seasoning filled the house. Patricia felt that the fates were fighting against her, innerving herself for the usual human sundae ordeal, she had forgotten the vegetable menace, in other words, that it was pork sundae. Mr Bolton was always more than usually trying on sundaes, but reinforced by onions he was almost unbearable. Patricia fled. It was the sundae before August bank holiday. Patricia shut it at the remembrance. It meant that people were away. She did not pause to think that her world was at home, pursuing its various paths, or by to cultivate an appetite worthy of the pork that was even then sizzling in the Galvenhouse kitchen under the eagle eye of the cook, who prided herself on her crackling, which Galvenhouse crunched with noisy gusto. Patricia sank down upon a chair, far back under the trees, opposite the Stanhope gate. Here she remained, in a vague way watching the people, yet unconscious of their presence. From time to time some snatch of meaningless conversation would reach her. You know, Betty's such a sport, one man said to another. Patricia found herself wondering what Betty was like, and what, to the speaker's mind, constituted being a sport. Was Betty pretty? She must be, Patricia decided. No one cared whether or no a plain girl were a sport. She found herself wanting to know Betty. What were the lives of all these people, these shadows, that were moving to and fro in front of her, each intent upon something that seemed of vital importance, were they? I doubt if Cassandra could have looked more gloomily prophetic. She turned with a start and saw Jeffrey Elson smiling down upon her. Did I look as bad as that? She inquired as he took a seat beside her. You looked as if you were gratuitously settling the destinies of the world, he replied. In a way I suppose I was, she said musingly. You see, they all mean something, indicating the paraders with a knot of her head. Tragedy, comedy, fars, sometimes all three. If you only stop to think about life, it all seems so hopeless. I feel sometimes that I could run away from it all. That, in the Middle Ages, would have been diagnosed as the monastic spirit, said Elton. It arose, and no doubt continues in most cases to arise, from a sluggish liver. How dreadful! laughed Patricia. The inference is obvious. The world's greatest achievements and greatest tragedies could no doubt be traced directly to rebellious livers. Waterloo and Hamlet are instances. Are you serious? inquired Patricia. She was never quite certain of Elton. In a way I suppose I am, you replied. If I were a pathologist, I should write a book upon the influence of disease upon the destinies of the world. The supreme monarch is the microbe. The Germans have shown that they recognise this. Patricia shouted. Of course, you have to make some personal sacrifice in the matter of self-respect first, continued Elton. But after that the rest becomes easy. I suppose that is what a German victory would mean, said Patricia. Yes, we should give up lead and nickel and TNT and invent germ distributors. Essen would become a great centre of germ culture, and… Oh, please let us talk about something else, cried Patricia. It's horrible. Well, said Elton, with a smile. Shall we continue our talk over lunch, if you have no engagement? Lady Peggy asked me, began Patricia. They are away in Somerset, said Elton. So now I claim you as my victim. It is your destiny to save me from my own thoughts. And yours to save me from roast pork and applesauce, said Patricia, rising. As they walked towards Hyde Park Corner, she explained the Galvenhouse cuisine. They lunged at the ritz, and, to her surprise, Patricia found herself eating with enjoyment, a thing she had not done for weeks past. She decided that it must be a revulsion of feeling after the menace of roast pork. Elton was a good talker, with a large experience of life and a considerable fund of general information. I should like to travel, said Patricia, as she sipped her coffee in the lounge. Why? Elton held a match to her cigarette. Oh, I suppose because it is enjoyable, replied Patricia. Besides, it educates, she added. That is too conventional to be worthy of you, said Elton. How? inquired Patricia. Most of the dull people I know ascribe their dullness to lack of opportunities for travel. They seem to think that a voice around the world will make brilliant talkers of the toughest boars. Am I as tedious as that? inquired Patricia, looking up with a smile. Your friend, Mr. Triggs, for instance, continued Elton passing over Patricia's remark. He has not traveled, and he is always interesting. Why? I suppose because he is Mr. Triggs, said Patricia, after herself. Exactly, said Elton. If you were really yourself, you would not be. So dull, broke in Patricia with a laugh. So lonely, continued Elton, ignoring the interruption. Why do you say that? demanded Patricia. It's not exactly a compliment. Intellectual loneliness may be the lot of the greatest social success. But why do you think I am lonely? persisted Patricia. Let us take Mr. Triggs as an illustration. He is direct, unversed in diplomacy, golden-hearted, with a great capacity for friendship and sentiment. When he is heard, he shows it as plainly as a child. Therefore we none of us hurt him. He is a dear, murmured Patricia, after herself. If he were in love, he would never permit pride to disguise it. Patricia glanced up at Elton, but he was engaged in examining the end of a secret. He would credit the other person with the same sincerity as himself, continued Elton. The biggest rogue respects an honest man. That is why we, who are always trying to disguise our emotions, admire Mr. Triggs, who would just as soon wear a red beard and false eyebrows as seek to convey a false impression. Patricia found herself wondering why Elton had selected this topic. She was conscious that it was not due to chance. Is it worth it? Elton's remark, half-command, half-question, seemed to step through her thoughts. She looked up at him, her eyes a little widened with surprise. Is what worth what? she inquired. I was just wondering, said Elton, if the Triggs are not very wise in eating onions and not bothering about what the world would think. Eating onions, cried Patricia. My medical board is on Tuesday up north, said Elton, and I shall hope to get back to France. You see things in a truer perspective when you're leaving town under such conditions. Patricia was silent for some time. Elton's remarks sometimes wanted thinking out. You think we should take happiness where we can find it, she asked. Well, I think we're too much inclined to render unto Caesar the things which are gods, he replied gravely. Do you appreciate that you're talking in parables, said Patricia? That is because I do not possess Mr. Triggs's golden gift of directness. Suddenly Patricia glanced at her watch. Why, it's five minutes to three, she cried. I had no idea it was so late. I promised to run round to say goodbye to Peter at three. Elton remarked casually as he passed through the lounge. Goodbye, cried Patricia in surprise. He's throwing up his staff at Pointland and has applied to rejoin his regiment in France. For a moment Patricia stopped dead. Then, with a great effort, she passed through the revolving door into the sunlight. Her knees seemed strangely shaky, and she felt thankful when she saw the border hill at Taxi. Elton handed her in and closed the door. Galvenhouse? he interrogated. When does he go? asked Patricia, in a voice that she could not keep even in tone. As soon as the war officer approves, said Elton. Does Lady Tenegra know? she asked. No, Peter will not tell her until everything is settled, he replied. As the taxi spat westwards, Patricia was conscious that some strange change had come over her. She had the feeling that follows a long bout of weeping. Peter was going away. Suddenly everything was changed. Everything was explained. She must see him, prevent him from going back to France. He was going because of her. He would be killed and it would be her fault. Arrived at Galvenhouse, she went straight to her room. For two hours she lay on her bed, her mind in a turmoil, her head feeling as if it were being compressed into a mould too small for it. No matter how she strove to control them, her thoughts inevitably returned to the phrase, Peter is going to France. Unknown to herself, she was fighting a great fight with her pride. She must see him, but how? If she telephoned, it would be an unconditional surrender. She could never respect herself again. When you are in love, you take pleasure in trampling your pride under foot. The phrase persisted in obtruding itself. Where had she heard it? What was pride? She asked herself. One might be very lonely with pride as one's sole companion. What would Mr. Tricks say? She could see as for it, corrugated with trying to understand what pride had to do with love. Even Elton, self-restrained, almost self-sufficient, admitted that Mr. Tricks was right. If she let Peter go? A year hence, a month perhaps, she might have lost him. Of what use would her pride be then? She had not known before, but now she knew how much Peter meant to her. Since he had come into her life, everything had changed, and she had grown discontented with the things that, hitherto, she had tacitly accepted as her portion. You're fretting me, dear! Mr. Tricks's remark came back to her. She recalled how indignant she had been. Why? Because it was true. She had been cross. She remembered the old man's anxiety lest he had offended her. She almost smiled as she recalled his clumsy effort to explain away his remark. She had heard someone knock gently at her door, once, twice, three times. She made no response. Then Gustav's voice whispered, "'T is served in a lounge, Miss.' She heard him creep away with clumsy stealth. There was a sweet-natured creature. He could never disguise an emotion. He had come upstairs during the raid, though in obvious terror, in order to save her. Mr. Tricks, Gustav, Elton, all were against her. She knew that in some subtle way they were working to fight her pride. For some time longer she lay. Then suddenly she sprang up. First she bathed her face, then undid her hair. Finally she changed her frock and pouted her nose. "'Hurry up, Patricia, or you may think better of it,' she cried to her reflection in the glass. This is a race with spinsterhood.' Going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone. Gerard, sixty thousand, she called, conscious that both her voice and her knees were unsteady. After what seemed an age, they came to reply, "'Quarant Hotel?' "'Is Lord Peter Bowen in?' she inquired. "'Thank you,' she added in response to the clerk's promise to inquire. Her hand was shaking. She almost dropped the receiver. He must be out,' she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. If he were in they would have found him. Perhaps he had already started for— "'Who's that?' it was Bowen's voice. Patricia felt she could sing, so he had not gone. Would her knees play her falls and cheat her?' "'It—it's me,' she said, regardless of grammar. "'That's delightful, but who is me?' came the response. No wonder women liked him. If he spoke like that to them,' she decided. Suddenly she realized that even she herself could not recognize as her own the voice with which she was speaking. "'Patricia,' she said. "'Patricia?' There was astonishment, almost incredulity in his voice. So Elton had said nothing. "'Where are you? Can I see you?' Patricia felt her cheeks burn at the eagerness of his tone. "'I'm—I'm going out. I—I'll call for you, if you like,' she stammered. "'I say, how ripping of you! Come in a taxi, or shall I come and fetch you?' "'No, I—I'm coming now. I'm—' Then she put up the receiver. "'What was she going to do, or say?' For a moment she swayed. "'Was she going to faint?' A momentary deathly sickness seemed to overcome her. She fought it back fiercely. She must get to the quadrant. "'I shall have to be a sort of reincarnation of Mrs. Tricks, I think,' she murmured, as she staggered past the astonished Gustave, who was just coming from the lounge and out of the front door, where she secured a taxi. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Patricia Brandt spinced her. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. Patricia Brandt spinced her by Herbert Jenkins, Chapter 21. The Greatest in Discretion 1. In the vestibule of the quadrant stood Peel, looking at veritable colossus of negation. As Patricia approached, he bowed and led the way to the lift. As it slid upwards, Patricia wondered if Peel could hear the thumping of her heart, and if so, what he thought of it. She followed him along the composite corridor, conscious of a mad desire to turn and fly. What would Peel do, she wondered? Possibly, in the madness of the moment, his mantle of discretion might fall from him, and it would dash after her. What a sensation for the quadrant! A girl tearing along as if for her life pursued by a gentleman's servant. It would look just like the poster of Charlie's aunt. Peel opened the door of Bone's sitting room, and Patricia entered, with a smile still on her lips, that the thought of Charlie's aunt had aroused. Something seemed to spring towards her from inside the room, and she found herself caught in a pair of arms and kissed. She remembered wondering if Peel were behind, or if he had closed the door. Then she abandoned herself to Bone's embrace. Everything seemed somehow changed. It was as if someone had suddenly shouldered her responsibilities, and she would never have to think again for herself. Her lips, her eyes, her hair were kissed in turn. She was being crushed, yet she was conscious only of a feeling of complete content. Suddenly the realization of what was happening dawned upon her, and she strove to free herself. With all her falls she pushed Bone from her. He released her. She stood back, looking at him with crimson cheeks and unseeing eyes. She was conscious that something unusual was happening to her. Something in which she appeared to have no voice. Perhaps it was all a dream. She swayed a little. The same sensation she had fought back at the telephone was overcoming her. Was she going to faint? It would be ridiculous to faint in Bone's rooms. Why did people faint? Was it really as Aunt Adelaide had told her, because the heart missed a beat? One beat? She felt Bone's arm round her. She seemed to sway towards the chair. Was the chair really moving away from her? Then the mist seemed to clear. Someone was kneeling beside her. Bone gazed at her anxiously. Her face was now colorless, and her eyes closed wearily. She sighed as a tired child sighs before falling asleep. Patricia, what's the matter? cried Bone in alarm. You haven't fainted, have you? She was conscious of the absurdity of the question. She opened her eyes with a curious, fluttering movement of the lids, as if they were uncertain how long they could remain enclosed. A slow, tired smile played across her face, like a passing shaft of sunshine. Then the lids closed again, and the life seemed to go out of her body. Bone gently withdrew his arm, and, rising, strode across to a table on which was a decanter of whiskey and a siphon of soda. With unsteady hands he poured whiskey and soda into a glass, and, returning to Patricia, he passed his arm gently behind her head, placing the glass against her lips. She drank a little, and then, with a shudder, turned her head aside. A moment later her eyes opened again. She looked round the room, then fixed her gaze on Bone as if trying to explain to herself his presence. Gradually the collar returned to her cheeks, and she sighed deeply. She shook her head as Bone put the glass against her lips. I nearly fainted, she whispered, sighing again. I've never done such a thing. Then, after a pause, she added, I wonder what has happened. My head feels so funny. It's all my fault, said Bone penitently. I've waited so long, and I seem to go mad. You will forgive me, dearest, won't you? His voice was full of concern. Patricia smiled. Have I been here long? she asked. It seems ages since I came. No, only about five minutes. Oh, Patricia, you won't do it again, will you? Bone drew her nearer to him, and upset the glass containing the remains of the whiskey and soda that he had placed on the floor beside him. I didn't quite faint, really, she said earnestly, as if defending herself from her approach. I mean, throw me over, explained Bone. It's been hell. Please go and sit down, she said, moving restlessly. I'm all right now. I want to talk, and I can't talk like this. Again she smiled, and Bone lifted her hand and kissed it gently. Rising, he drew a chair near her, and sat down. You see, all this comes of trying to be a Mrs. Triggs, she said regretfully. Mrs. Triggs? Bone looked at her anxiously. Slowly and a little wearily, Patricia explained her conversation with Elton. Didn't he tell you he'd seen me? No, replied Bone, relieved at the explanation. Godfrey is a perfect dome of silence on occasion. Why did you suddenly leave me all alone, Peter? Patricia inquired presently. I couldn't understand. It hurt me terribly. I didn't realize—she paused. Oh, everything, until I heard you were going away. Oh, my dear, she cried in a low voice. Be gentle with me. I'm all bruises. Bone bent across to her. I'm a brute, he said, but— She shook her head. Not that sword, she said. It's my pride I've bruised. I seem to have turned everything upside down. You'll have to be very gentle with me at first, please. She looked up at him with a flicker of a smile. Not only at first, dear, but always, said Bone gently, as he rose and seated himself beside her. Patricia, when did you care? He blurted out the last word hurriedly. I don't know, she replied dreamily. You see, she continued after a pause. I've not been like other girls. Do you know Peter? She looked at him shyly. You're the first man who has ever kissed me, except my father. Isn't it absurd? It's nothing of the sort, Bone declared, tilting up her chin and gazing down into her eyes. But you haven't answered my question. Well, continued Patricia, speaking slowly. When you sent me flowers and messengers and telegraph boys and things, I was angry. And then when you didn't, I— she paused. Wanted them, he suggested. Hmm-hmm, she nodded her head. I suppose so, she conceded. But she erred with a sudden change of mood. I shall always be dreadfully afraid of Peel. He seemed so perfect. Bone laughed. I'll try and balance masses, he said. But you haven't told me, Patricia, why you left me alone all at once. Why did you? She looked up inquiringly at him. During the next half an hour, Patricia slowly drew from Bone the whole story of the plot engineered by Lady Tenegra. But why, questioned Patricia, were you going away if you knew that— that everything would come all right? I'd given up hope, and I couldn't break my promised attend. I convinced myself that you didn't care. Patricia held out her hand with a smile. Bone bent and kissed it. I wonder what you're thinking of me. She looked up at him anxiously. I'm very much at your mercy now, Peter, aren't I? He won't let me ever regret it, will you? Do you regret it? he whispered, bending towards her, conscious of the fragrance of her hair. It's such an unconditional surrender, she complained. All my pride is bruised and trampled underfoot. You have me at such a disadvantage. So long as I've got you, I don't care. He laughed. Peter, said Patricia, after a few minutes of silence, I want you to ring up Tenegra and Godfrey Elton and ask them to dine here this evening. They must put off any other engagement. Tell them I say so. But can't we? began Bone. There, you're making me regret already, she said with a flash of her old ferocity. Bone flew to the telephone. By a lucky chance Elton was calling at Roseville Square, and Bone was able to get them both with one call. He was a little disappointed, however, at not having Patricia to himself that evening. When shall we get married? Bone asked eagerly, as Patricia rose and announced that she must go and repair damages to her face and garments. I will tell you after dinner, she said, as she walked towards the door. Two. It's only the impecunious who are constrained to be monest, remarked Elton, as the four sets smoking in Bone's room after dinner. Is that an apology or merely a statement of fact? asked Lady Tenegra. I think, remarked Patricia quietly, that it is an apology. Elton looked across at her with one of those quick movements of his eyes that showed how alert his mind was in spite of the languid ease of his manner. And now, continued Patricia, I have something very important to say to you all. Oh, groaned Lady Tenegra, spare me from the self-importance of the newly engaged girl. It has come to my knowledge, Tenegra, proceeded Patricia, that you and Mr. Elton did deliberately and wittingly conspire together against my peace of mind and happiness. There, she added, that's almost legal in his ambiguity, isn't it? Lady Tenegra and Elton exchanged glances. What do you mean? demanded Lady Tenegra gaily. Patricia explained that she had extracted from Bone the whole story. Lady Tenegra looked reproachfully at her brother. Then, turning to Patricia, she said with unwanted seriousness, I saw that was the only way to, to, well, get you for a sister-in-law, and she paused the moment, and suddenly I knew you were the only girl for that silly old thing there, who was blundering up the whole business. Your mania for interfering in other people's affairs will be your ruin, Tenegra. So Patricia, as she turned to Elton, her look clearly inquiring if he had any excuse to offer. The old Garden of Eden answer, a woman tempted me. Then we will apply the old Garden of Eden punishment, announced Patricia. Elton, who was the first to grasp her meaning, looked anxiously at Lady Tenegra, who, with knitted brows, was endeavouring to penetrate Patricia's meaning. Bone was obviously at sea. Suddenly Lady Tenegra's face flamed, and her eyes dropped. Elton stroked the back of his head, a habit he had when preoccupied. He was never nervous. You too, continued Patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself, have precipitated yourselves into my most private affairs, and in return I am going to take a hand in yours. Peter has asked me when I will marry him. I said I would tell him after dinner this evening. Bone looked across at her eagerly. Elton lit another cigarette. Lady Tenegra toyed nervously with her amber cigarette holder. I will marry Peter, announced Patricia. When you, Tenegra, she paused slightly. Mary got free Elton. Lady Tenegra looked up with a startled cry. Her eyes were wide, with something that seemed almost fear. Then, without warning, she turned and buried her head in a cushion, and burst into uncontrollable sobbing. Bone started up. With the swift movement Patricia went over to his side, and before he knew what was happening he was in the corridor, stuttering his astonishment to Patricia. For an hour the two sat in a lounge below, talking and listening to the band. Patricia explained to Bone how from the first she had known that Elton and Tenegra were in love. But we've known them all our lives, expostulated Bone. The very thing that blinded you all to a most obvious fact. But why didn't he begin Bone? Because of her money, explained Patricia. Anyhow, she continued gaily. I had lost my own tail, and I wasn't going to see Tenegra wagging hers before my eyes. Now let's go up and see what has happened. Just as Bone's hand was on the handle of the sitting-room door, Patricia cried out that she had dropped her ring. When they entered the room, Elton and Lady Tenegra were standing facing the door. One glance at their faces told Patricia all she wanted to know. Without a word, Elton came forward and, bending low, kissed her hand. There was something so touching in this act of deference that Patricia fell her throat contract. She went across to Lady Tenegra and put her arm round her. You darling, whispered Lady Tenegra, how clever of you to know. I knew the first time I saw you together, whispered Patricia. Lady Tenegra hugged her. And now we must all run round to Grossman Square. Poor mother, what a surprise for her. Three. Elton's medical board took a more serious view of his state of health than was anticipated, and it was temporarily given an appointment in the Intelligence Department. Bone's application to be allowed to rejoin his regiment was refused, and thus the way was cleared for the double wedding that took place at St Margaret's Westminster. Patricia was given away by the Duke of Gaetan. Lady Peggy declared that it would rank as the most heroic act he had ever performed. Mr. Tricks reached the highest sartorial pinnacle of his career in a light grey, almost white, frock-coated suit with a high hat to match, a white waistcoat and a white satin tie. As Elton expressed it, he looked like a musical comedy conception of a bookmaker turned philanthropist. Galvin House was there in force, even Gustave obtained an hour off, and, with a large white rose in his buttonhole, beamed on every one and everything with the utmost impartiality. Miss Brent, like Achilles, soaked in her tent. The only two men I ever loved wailed Lady Peggy to a friend, and both gone at one shot. She is a lucky girl, said an old dowager, and only a secretary. Some girl, what? muttered an embryo-filled marshal to a one-pip strategist in the uniform of the Irish guards, who concurred with an emphatic, lucky devil. At Galvin House for the rest of the chapter they talked, dreamt and lived the bone-brand marriage. It was the one ineffasible sunspot in the grainers of their lives.