 Chapter 6 of Patricia Brent Spinster Sunday at Galvin House was a day of bodily rest, but acute mental activity. In the day of God seemed to draw out the worst in everybody, all were in their best clothes and on their worst behaviour. Mr. Coorle descended to breakfast in carpet slippers with fur tops. Miss Wengle regarded this as a mark of disrespect towards the grand news of a bishop. She would glare at Mr. Coorle's slippers as if convinced that the cloven hoof were inside. Mr. Bolton sported a velvet smoking jacket, wide at the elbows, light grey trousers, and a menna that seemed to say, Ha! here's Sunday again, good! After breakfast he added a fez and a British cigar to his equipment, and retired to the lounge to read Lloyd's news. Both the cigar and the newspaper lasted him throughout the day. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the conviction that in smoking a cigar, which he disliked, he was making a fitting distinction between the Sabbath and weekdays. He went even further, for whereas on secular days he lit his inexpensive cigarettes with matches. On the Sabbath he used only fuses. I love the smell of fuses! Miss Sycambe would simper, regardless of the fact that a hundred times before she had taken Galvin house into her confidence on the subject. I think they're so romantic! Patricia wondered if Mr. Bolton's fusee were an offering to heaven or to Miss Sycambe. On Sunday mornings Miss Wengle and Miss Moskrup Smythe went to divine service at Westminster Abbey, and Mr. Gordle went to sleep in a lounge. Mrs. Barnes wondered aimlessly about making Anxious Inquiry of everyone she encountered. If it were cloudy, did they think it would rain? If it rained, did they think it would clear up? If it were fine, did they think it would last? Mrs. Barnes was always going to do something that was contingent upon the weather. Every Sunday she was going for a walk in the park or to church, but her constitutional indecision of character intervened. Mr. Archibald Sefton, who showed the qualities of a landscape gardener in the way in which he ranged his thin, fair hair to distinguish the desert of boldness beneath, was always vigorous on Sundays. He descended to the dining-room, rubbing his hands in a manner suggestive of a Dickens Christmas. After breakfast he walked in the park to give the girls a treat, as Mr. Bolton at once expressed it, which had earned for him a stern rebuke for Miss Wengle. In the afternoon Mr. Sefton returned to the park, and in the evening yet again. Mr. Sefton had a secret that was slowly producing in him misanthropy. His nature was tropical and his courage arctic, which, coupled with his forty-five years, was a great obstacle to his happiness. In dress he was a dandy, at heart he was a craven, and, never daring, he was consumed with his own fire. The other guests at Galvin House, drifted in and out, set the same things, wore the same clothes, with occasional additions, had the same thoughts, whilst overall, as if to compose the picture, brooded the reek of cooking. The atmosphere of Galvin House was English, the cooking was English, and the lack of culinary imagination also was English. There were two-and-a-half menus for the one-o'clock Sunday dinner. Roast mutton, onion sauce, cabbage, potatoes, fruit pie and custard, alternated for four weeks with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, cauliflower, roast potatoes, and lemon pudding. Then came roast pork, applesauce, potatoes, greens with stewed fruit and cheese afterwards. The cuisine was in itself a calendar. If your first Sunday were roast pork Sunday, you knew without mental effort on every roast pork Sunday exactly how many months you had been there. If for a moment you had forgotten the day, and found yourself toying with a herring at dinner, you knew it was a Tuesday, just as you knew it was Friday from the scotch broth placed before you. Nobody seemed to mind the dreary reiteration because everybody was so occupied in keeping up appearances. Sunday was the day of reckoning and retrospection. Were they getting full value for their money? Was the unuttered question? There were whispers and grumblings, sometimes complaints. Then there was another aspect. Each guest had to inquire if the expenditure was justified by income. All these things, like the weekly manding, were kept for Sundays. By tea time the atmosphere was one of unrest. Mr. Sefton returned from the park disappointed. Miss Sycambe from Sunday school, breathless from her flight before some alleged admirer. Patricia from a walk, conscious of a dissatisfaction she could not define. Mr. Coral awoke unrefreshed. Mrs. Graskmorton emerged from her boudoir, where she balanced the week's accounts, convinced that ruins teared her in the face owing to the tonic qualities of base-water air. But Mr. Bolton emerged from Lloyd's news facetious. Miss Wangle was acid, Mrs. Moskrup's smith ultra-forbearing, whilst Mrs. Barnes found it impossible to decide between a heart-cake and a rusk. Only Mrs. Hamilton, at work upon her inevitable knitting, seemed human and content. On returning to Galvenhouse, Patricia had formed a habit of instinctively casting her eyes in the direction of the letter-rec, beneath which was the table on which parcels were placed that they might be picked up as the various guests entered on their way to their rooms. She took herself severely to task for this weakness, but in spite of her best efforts her eyes would wander towards the table and letter-rec. At last she had to take stern measures with herself and deliberately walk along the hall with her face turned to the left, that is, to the side opposite from that of the letter-rec table. On the Sunday afternoon following her adventure at the quadrant-grow room, Patricia entered Galvenhouse, her head resolutely turned to the left, and ran into Gustave. "'Who, miss?' he exclaimed, his gentle cow-like face expressing pain surprise rather than indignation. Gustave was a Swiss, a French Swiss. He was emphatic on this point. Patricia said he was Swiss wherever he wasn't French, and German wherever he wasn't Swiss and French. "'I'm so sorry, Gustave,' apologized Patricia. I wasn't looking where I was going. Gustave smiled amably. Patricia was a great favourite of his. "'There is a lady in the lounge, Miss Brent, the same as you.' Gustave smiled broadly as if he had discovered some subtle joke in the duplication of Patricia's name. "'Oh, bother,' muttered Patricia to herself. "'Aunt Adelaide, imagine Aunt Adelaide on an afternoon like this.' She ended the lounge warily, to find Miss Brent the centre of her group, the foremost in which were Mrs. Graskmoulton, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Moskrup Smythe. Patricia groaned in spirit. She knew exactly what had been taken place, and now she would have to explain everything. "'Could she explain?' Had she for one moment paused to think of Aunt Adelaide, no amount of frenzy or excitement would have prompted her to such an adventure. Miss Brent would probe the mystery out of a ghost. Material, practical, level-headed, victories, she would strip romance from a legend, or glamour from a myth. As she entered the lounge, Patricia saw by the movement of Miss Wangle's lips that she was saying, "'Ah, here she is.' Miss Brent turned and regarded her knees with a long, non-committal stare. Patricia walked over to her. "'Hello, Aunt Adelaide. Who would have thought of seeing you here?' Miss Brent looked up at her, received a frigid kiss upon one cheek, and returned it upon the other. "'A peck for a peck,' muttered Patricia to herself under her breath. "'We've been talking about you,' said Mrs. Moskrup-Smythe, ingratiatingly. "'How strange,' announced Patricia, indifferently. "'Well, Aunt Adelaide,' she continued, turning to Miss Brent. "'This is an unexpected pleasure. How is it you are dissipating in town?' "'I want to speak to you, Patricia. Is there a quiet corner where we shall not be overheard?' Miss Wangle started. Mrs. Graskmorton rose hurriedly and made for the door. Mrs. Moskrup-Smythe looked uncomfortable. Miss Brent's directness was a thing dreaded by all who knew her. "'You'd better come up to my room, Aunt Adelaide,' said Patricia. As she reached the door, Mrs. Graskmorton turned. "'Oh, Miss Brent,' she said, addressing Patricia. "'Would you not like to take your aunt into my boudoir? It is entirely at your disposal.' Mrs. Graskmorton's boudoir was a small, cupboard-like apartment in which she made up her account. It was as much like a boudoir, as a stavelling mongrel is like an aristocratic chow.' Patricia smiled her thanks. One of Patricia's great points was that she could smile an acknowledgement in a way that was little less than inspiration. When they reached the boudoir, Miss Brent sat down with a suddenness and an air of aggression that left Patricia in no doubt as to the nature of the torque she desired to have with her. Miss Brent was a tall, angular woman, with spinster shouting from every angle of her uncommonly person. No matter what the fashion, she seemed to wear her clothes all bunched up about her hips. Her hair was dragged to the back of her head and crowned by a hat known in the dim recesses of the Victorian past as a boater. A veil clawed what remained of the hair and head towards the rear, and accentuated the sharpness of her nose and the fleshlessness of her cheeks. Miss Brent looked like nothing so much as an aged hawk in whom the lust of prey still lingered without the power of making the physical effort to capture it. Patricia, she demanded, what is all this I hear? If you've been talking to Miss Wangle and Miss Moskrup-Smith on that late, heaven only knows what you've heard, replied Patricia calmly. Patricia! Miss Brent invariably began her remarks by uttering the name of the person whom she addressed. Patricia, you know perfectly well what I mean. I should know better if you would tell me, moment Patricia, with a patient sigh as she seated herself in the easiest of the uneasy chairs and proceeded to pull off her gloves. Patricia, I refer to these stories about your being engaged. Yes, Aunt Adelaide? Have you nothing to say? Nothing in particular. People get engaged, you know. I suppose it is because they've got nothing else to do. Patricia, don't be frivolous. Frivolous? Me frivolous? Aunt Adelaide, if you were a secretary to a brainless politician who is supposed to rise, but who won't rise, can't rise, and never will rise, from ten until five each day, for the magnificent salary of two and a half guineas a week, even you wouldn't be able to be frivolous. Patricia, though as surprised as approval in Miss Brent's voice, are you mad? No, Aunt Adelaide, just bored, just bored stiff. Patricia emphasised the word stiff in a way that brought Miss Brent into an even more upright position. Patricia, I wish you would change your idiom. Your fleek and vulgarity would have deeply pained your poor dear father. Patricia made no response. She simply looked as she felt, unutterably bored. She was incapable even of invention. Supposing she told her aunt the whole story, at least she would have the joy of seeing the look of horror that would overspread her features. Patricia, continued Miss Brent, I repeat, what is this I hear about your being engaged? Oh, replied Patricia, indifferently. I suppose you've heard the truth. I've got engaged. You're telling me a word about it? Oh, well, those are nasty things, you know, that one doesn't advertise. Patricia! Well, Aunt, you say that all men are beasts, and if you associate with beasts, you don't like the world to know about it. Patricia, repeated Miss Brent. Aunt Adelaide, cried Patricia, you make me feel that I absolutely hate my name. I wish I'd been numbered. If you say Patricia again, I shall scream. Is it true that you are engaged to Lord Peter Bowen? Good Lord, no! Patricia set up in astonishment. Then that woman in the lounge is a liar. There was uncompromising conviction in Miss Brent's tone. Patricia leaned forward and smiled. Aunt Adelaide, you are singularly discriminating today. She is a liar, and she also happens to be a cat. Miss Brent appeared not to hear Patricia's remark. She was occupied with her own thoughts. She possessed a masculine habit of thinking before she spoke, and in consequence she was as devoid of impulse and spontaneity as a snail. Patricia watched her aunt covetly, her mind working furiously. What could it mean? Lord Peter Bowen? Miss Wangle was not given to making mistakes in which the aristocracy were concerned. At Galvin House she was the recognized authority upon anything and everything concerned with royalty and the title then landed gentry. Family's, or her hobbies, and the peerage, her obsession. It would be just like Peter, thought Patricia, to turn out a Lord, just the ridiculous, inconsequent sort of thing he would delight in. She was unconscious of any incongruity in thinking of him as Peter. It seemed the natural thing to do. She was sold by the signs on her aunt's face that she was nearing a decision. Conscious that she must not burn her boats, Patricia burst in upon Miss Brent's thoughts with a suddenness that startled her. If Miss Wangle desires to discuss my friends with you in future, Aunt Adelaide, I think she should adopt the names by which they prefer to be known. Patricia watched the surprised look upon her aunt's face, and with dignity met the keen hawk-like glance that flashed from her eyes. If, for reasons of his own, continued Patricia, a man chooses to drop his title in favor of his rank in the army, that I think is a matter for him to decide, and not one that requires discussion at Miss Wangle's hands. Miss Brent's stare convinced Patricia that she was carrying things off rather well. Patricia, where did you meet this colonel, Peter Bowen? The question came like a thunder clap to Patricia's unprepared ears. All her self-complacency of a moment before now deserted her. She felt her face crimsoning. How she envied girls who did not blush. What on earth could she tell her aunt? Why had an undiscriminating providence given her an Aunt Adelaide at all? Why had it not bestowed this inestimable treasure upon someone more deserving? What could she say? As well think of lying to Radamantas as to Miss Brent. Then Patricia had an inspiration. She would tell her aunt the truth, trusting to her not to believe it. Where did I meet him, Aunt Adelaide? She remarked indifferently. Oh, I picked him up in a restaurant. He looked nice. Patricia, how dare you say such a thing before me? A slight flush mentalled Miss Brent's shallow cheeks. All the proprieties, all the chastities, and all the moralities banged up behind her in moral support. You ought to feel ashamed of yourself, Patricia. London has done you no good. What would your poor dear father have said? I'm sorry, Aunt Adelaide, but please remember I've had a very tiring week trying to leave an unleavenable politician. Shall we drop the subject of colonel bone for the time being? Certainly not, snapped Miss Brent. Is my duty as your soul surviving relative? How Patricia deplored that word, surviving. Why had her aunt Adelaide survived? As your soul surviving relative, repeated Miss Brent, it is my duty to look after your welfare. But, protested Patricia, I'm nearly twenty-five, and I'm quite able to look after myself. Patricia, it is my duty to look after you. Miss Brent spoke as if she were about to walk over heated plowshares rather than to satisfy a natural curiosity. I repeat, proceeded Miss Brent, where did you meet colonel bone? I've told you Aunt Adelaide, but you won't believe me. I want to know the truth, Patricia. Is he really Lord Peter? persisted Miss Brent. To be quite candid, I've never asked him, replied Patricia. Miss Brent stared at her knees. The obviously feminine thing was to express surprise, but Miss Brent never did the obvious thing. Instead of repeating, never asked him. She remained silent for some moments, while Patricia, with great intentness, proceeded to jerk her gloves into shape. Patricia, you're mad! Miss Brent spoke with conviction. Patricia glanced up from her occupation and smiled at her aunt as if entirely sharing her conviction. It's the prize of spinsterhood with some women, was all she said. Miss Brent glared at her, but there was more than a spice of curiosity in her look. Then you declined to tell me, she inquired. There was in her voice a note that told of a mind made up. Patricia knew from past experience that her aunt had made up her mind as to her course of action. Tell you what, she inquired innocently. Whether or no the colonel bone you are engaged to is Lord Peter Bone. Patricia determined to temperise in order to gain time. She knew Aunt Adelaide to be capable of anything, even to calling upon Lord Peter Bone's family and inquiring if it were he to whom her niece was engaged. She was too bewildered to know how to act. It would be so like this absurd person to turn out to be a Lord and make her still more ridiculous. If he were Lord Peter, why on earth had he not told her? Had he thought she would be dazzled? Suddenly there flashed into Patricia's mind an explanation which caused her cheeks to flame and her eyes to flash. She strove to put the idea aside as unworthy of him, but it refused to leave her. She had heard of men giving false names to girls they met, in the way she and Bone had met. He had then, in spite of his protestations, mistaken her. In all probability he was not staying at the quadrant at all. What a fool she had been! She had told all about herself, whereas he had told her nothing beyond the fact that his name was Peter Bone. How it was intolerable! The worst of it was that she seemed unable to extricate herself from the ever-increasing tangle arising out of her folly. Ms. Wangle and Galvin House had been sufficiently serious factors requiring all her watchfulness to circumvent them. But now Aunt Adelaide had thrown herself precipitately into the melee, and Heaven alone knew what would be the outcome. Had her aunt been a man or merely a woman, Patricia argued, she would not have been so dangerous. But she possessed the deliberate logic of the one, and the quickness of perception of the other. With her feminine eyes she could see, and with her men-like brain she could judge. Patricia felt that the one thing to do was to get rid of her aunt for the day, and then think things over quietly, and decide as to her plan of campaign. Please, Aunt Adelaide, she said, don't let's discuss it any more today. I've had such a worrying time at the Bonsers, and my head is so stupid. Come to tea to-morrow afternoon at half-past five, and I will tell you all, as they say in their novelettes. But for Heaven's sake, don't get talking to those dreadful old tabbies. They have no affairs of their own, and at the present moment they simply live upon mine. Very well, Patricia, replied Ms. Brent as she rose to go. I will wait until to-morrow. But understand me, I am your soul surviving relative, and I have a duty to perform by you. That duty I shall perform, whatever it costs me." As Patricia looked into the hard, cold eyes of her aunt, she believed her. At that moment Ms. Brent looked as if she represented all the aggressive virtues in Christenham. It's very sweet of you, Aunt Adelaide, and I very much appreciate your interest. I'm all nervy today, but I shall be all right to-morrow. Don't forget, half-past five here. That will give me time to get back from the Bonsers. Ms. Brent pecked Patricia's right cheek, and moved towards the door. Remember, Patricia, she said, as a final shot. To-morrow I shall expect a full explanation. I am deeply concerned about you. I cannot conceive what your poor dear father would have said had he been alive. With this parting shot Ms. Brent moved down the staircase and left Galvin House. As she stalked to the Temperance Hotel in Bloomsbury, where she was staying, she was fully satisfied that she had done her duty as a woman and a Christian. Soul-surviving relative muttered Patricia as she turned back after seeing her aunt out, and then she remembered with a smile that her father had once said that relatives were the very devil. A softness came into her eyes at the thought of her father, and she remembered another saying of his. When you lose your sense of humor and your courage at the same time you have lost the game. For a moment Patricia paused, deliberating what she would do. Suddenly she walked to the telephone at the end of the hall. There was a grimness about her look indicative of a set purpose. Taking down the receiver she called, Gerard, sixty thousand. There was a pause. That the Quadrant Hotel, she inquired, is Lord Peter Bowen in? The clerk would inquire. Patricia waited what seemed an age. At last her voice cried, Hello? Is that Lord Peter Bowen? Is that you, Patricia? came the reply from the other end of the wire. Oh, so it's true then, said Patricia. What's true? queried Bowen at the other end. What I've just said. What do you mean? I don't understand. I must see you this evening, said Patricia, in an even voice. That's most awfully good of you. It's nothing of the sort. Bowen laughed. Shall I come round? No. Will you dine with me? No. Well, where shall I see you? Patricia thought for a moment. I will meet you at Lancaster Gate Tube at twenty minutes to nine. All right, I'll be there. Shall I bring the car? For a moment Patricia hesitated. She did not want to go to a restaurant with him. She wanted me to talk and see how she was to get out of the difficulty with Aunt Adelaide. The car seemed to offer a solution. They could drive out to some quiet place and then talk without a chance of being overheard. Yes, please. I think that will do admirably. Mind you bring a thick coat. Won't you let me pick you up? Please do. Then you can bring a fur coat and all that sort of thing, you know. Again Patricia hesitated for a moment. Perhaps that would be the better way. She conceded grudgingly. Righto. Will half what they do? Yes, I'll be ready. It's awfully kind of you. I'm frightfully bucked. You'd better wait and see, I think, was Patricia's grim retort. Goodbye. Au revoir. Patricia put the receiver up with a jerk. She returned to her room conscious that she was never able to do herself justice with bone. Her most righteous anger was always in danger of being dissipated when she spoke to him. His personality seemed to radiate good nature, and he always appeared so genuinely glad to see her, or hear her voice that had placed her at a disadvantage. She ought to be stronger and more tenacious of purpose, she told herself. It was weak to be so easily influenced by someone else, especially a man who treated her in the way that Bowen had treated her. For Patricia had now come to regard herself as extremely ill-used. Nothing, she told herself, would have persuaded her to ring up Bowen in the way she had done, had it not been for Aunt Ellelade. In her heart she had to confess that she was very much afraid of Aunt Ellelade and what she might do. Patricia dreaded dinner that evening. She knew instinctively that everybody would be full of Ms. Wangle's discovery. She might have known that Ms. Wangle would not be satisfied until she had discovered everything that was to be discovered about Bowen. As Patricia walked along the hall to the staircase, Mrs. Hamilton came out of the lounge. Patricia put her arm round the fragile waist of the old lady, and they walked upstairs together. Well, said Patricia gaily, what are the old tabby's doing this afternoon? Might be her, expostulated Mrs. Hamilton gently. You mustn't call them that. They have so very little to interest them, that—that. Oh, you dear, funny little thing, said Patricia, giving Mrs. Hamilton a squeeze which almost lifted her off her feet. I think you would find an excuse for any one, no matter how wicked. When I get very, very bad, I shall come and ask you to explain me to myself. I think if you had your way, you would prove every wolf a sheep underneath. Come into my room and have a powwow. Inside a room, Patricia lifted Mrs. Hamilton bodily onto the bed. Now lie there, you dear little thing, and have a rest. Dad used to say that every woman ought to lie on her back for two hours each day. I don't know why. I suppose it was to keep her quiet and get her out of the way. In any case, you have got to lie down there. But you're bad, my dear, protested Mrs. Hamilton. Never mind my bad, you just do as you're told. Now what are the old cats? I beg your pardon, what have the lambs been saying? Mrs. Hamilton smiled in spite of herself. Well, of course, dear, we're all very interested to hear that you're engaged to Lord Peter Bone. How did they find out? Interrupted Patricia. Well, it appears that Miss Wengel has a friend who has a cousin in the War-Office. Oh, dear, grown Patricia. I believe Miss Wengel has a friend who has a cousin in every known place in the world and in good many unknown places, she added. She's got a bishop in heaven, innumerable connections in Mayfair, acquaintances at Court, cousins of friends at the War-Office. The only place where she seems to have nobody who has anybody else is hell. My dear, said Mrs. Hamilton in horror, you mustn't talk like that. But isn't it true, persisted Patricia? Well, I'm sorry if I've shocked you. Tell me all about it. Well, began Mrs. Hamilton. Soon after you had gone out, Miss Wengel's friend telephoned and replied to her letter of inquiry. She told her all about Lord Peter Bone, how he'd distinguished himself in France, won the military cross, the DSO, how he'd been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, and brought back to the War-Office and given a position on the General Staff. He's a very clever young man, my dear. Patricia laughed outright at Mrs. Hamilton's earnestness. Why, of course he's clever, otherwise he wouldn't have taken up with such a clever young woman. Well, my dear, I hope you'll be happy, said Mrs. Hamilton earnestly. I doubted, said Patricia. Doubted? There was horror in Mrs. Hamilton's voice. She half raised herself on the bed. Patricia pushed her back again. Never mind. Your remark reminds me of a story about a great-great-grandmother of mine. A granddaughter of hers had become engaged, and there was a great family meeting to introduce the poor victim to his future in-laws. The old lady was very deaf and had formed the habit of speaking aloud quite unconscious that others could hear her. The wretched young man was brought up and presented, and everybody was agogged to hear the grandmotherly pronouncement. She looked at the young man keenly and deliberately, whilst he stood the picture of discomfort, and turning to her granddaughter, said, Well, my dear, I hope you'll be happy. I hope you'll be very happy. Then to herself, in an equally loud voice, she added, But he wouldn't have been my choice. He wouldn't have been my choice. Oh, the poor dear, said Mrs. Hamilton, seeing only the tragic side of the situation. Patricia laughed. How like you, you dear little great lady! And she bent down and kissed the pale cheeks, bringing a slight rose flush to them. It was half past seven before Mrs. Hamilton left Patricia's room. Hey-oh! sighed Patricia as she undid her hair. I suppose I shall have to run the gauntlet during dinner. CHAPTER VI Sunday supper at Galvin House was a cold meal, timed for eight o'clock, but allowed to remain upon the table until half past nine for the convenience of church-goers. Patricia had dawdled over her toilet, refusing, however, to admit that she dreaded the ordeal before her in the dining-room. When at last she could find no excuse for remaining longer in her room, she descended the stairs slowly, conscious of a strange feeling of hesitancy about her knees. Outside the dining-room door she paused. Her instinct was to bolt, but the pat-pat of Gustave's approaching footsteps, cutting off her retreat, decided her. As she entered the dining-room, the hum of excited conversation seized abruptly, and amidst the dead silence, Patricia walked to her seat, conscious of a heightened color and a hatred of her own species. Looking round the table and seeing how acutely self-conscious everyone seemed, her self-possession returned. She noticed a new deference in Gustave's manner as he placed before her, a plate of cold shoulder of mutton and held the salad-bowl at her side. Having helped herself, Patricia turned to Ms. Wangle, and for a moment regarded her with an enigmatic smile that made her fidget. "'How clever of you, Ms. Wangle,' she said sweetly. In future no one will ever dare to have a secret at Galvin House.' Ms. Wangle reddened. Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out. "'Ha! Ms. Wangle, private inquiry agent,' he cried. "'I—' really, Mr. Bolton,' protested Mrs. Graskmoulton, looking anxiously at Ms. Wangle's in-drawn lips and angry eyes. Mr. Bolton subsided. "'We're so excited, dear Ms. Brent,' simped Ms. Sikkim. "'You'll be Lady Bowen.' "'Lady Peter Bowen,' corrected Mrs. Graskmoulton with superior knowledge. "'Lady Peter!' gushed Ms. Sikkim. "'Oh, how romantic! And I shall see your portrait in the mirror. Oh, Miss Brent, aren't you happy?" Patricia smiled across at Miss Sycambe, whose enthusiasm was too genuine to cause a fence. "'And you'll have cars and all sorts of things,' remarked Mrs. Moskrup-Smith, thinking of her solitary blue evening frock. He's very rich.' "'Worth ten thousand a year,' almost shouted Mr. Cordell, striving to regain control over a piece of lettuce-leave that fluttered from his lips, and having eventually to use his fingers. "'You'll forget all about us,' said Miss Pilcklinton, who in her capacity as a post-office supervisor daily showed her contempt for the public whose servant she was. "'If you're nice to her,' said Mr. Bolton, she may buy her stamps at your place.' "'Again, Mrs. Grask-Mortons. Really, Mr. Bolton?' eased the situation. Patricia was for the most part silent. She was thinking of the coming talk with Bone. In spite of herself, she was excited at the prospect of seeing him again. Miss Wangle also said little. From time to time she glanced in Patricia's direction. "'The wangles of our feet,' whispered Mr. Bolton to Miss Sycambe, producing from her a giggle, and an, "'Oh, Mr. Bolton, you are dreadful!' Mrs. Barnes was worrying as to whether a lord should be addressed as my lord or sir, if you curtey to him, and if so how he did it with rheumatism in the knee. Patricia noticed with amusement the new deference with which everyone treated her. Mrs. Grask-Morton, in particular, was most solicitous that she should make a good meal. Miss Wangle's silence was in itself a tribute. Patricia nervously awaited the moment when Bone's presence should be announced. When the time came, Gustave rose to the occasion magnificently. Everything opened the dining-room door impressively, and speaking with great distinctness he cried. "'Is lordship is here, Miss?' And then, after a moment's pause, he added, "'Is broadest car, Miss? It is at the door!' Patricia smiled in spite of herself at Gustave's earnestness. "'Very well, Gustave. Say I will not be a moment,' she replied, and, with a muttered apology to Mrs. Grask-Morton, she left the table in the dining-room, conscious of the dramatic tension of the situation. Patricia ran down the passage leading to the lounge, then suddenly remembering that haste and happiness were not in keeping with anger and reproach, and at the lounge with a sedateness that even Aunt Adelaide could not have found lacking in maidenly decorum. Bone came across from the window and took both her hands. "'Why was she allowing him to do this?' she asked herself. Why did she not reproach him? Why did she thrill at his touch? Why?' She withdrew her hands sharply, looked up at him, and then for no reason at all laughed. How absurd it all was! It was easy to be angry with him when he was at the quadrant and she at Galvin House. But with him before her, looking down at her with eyes that were smilingly confident and gravely differential by turn, she found her anger and good resolutions disappear. "'I know you're going to bully me, Patricia,' Bone's eyes smiled, but there was in his voice a note of inquiry. "'Oh, please let us escape before the others come in sight,' said Patricia, looking over her shoulder anxiously. They'll all be out in a moment. I left them straining at their leashes and swallowing scalding coffee so as to get a glimpse of a real live lord at close quarters. As she spoke, Patricia stepped on a toke. "'Shall I want anything warmer than this?' she inquired, as Bone helped her into a long fur-chimped coat. "'I brought a big fur coat for you in case it gets cold,' he replied, and he held open the door for her to pass. "'Quick,' she whispered, "'they're coming!' As she ran down the steps, she nodded brightly to Gustave, who stood almost bowed down with the burden of his respect for an English lord. As Bone swung the car round, Patricia was conscious that at the drawing-room and lounge windows Galvin House was heavily masked. Unable to find a space, Miss Sickham and Mr. Bolton had come out onto the doorstep, and as the car jerked forward Miss Sickham waved her pocket-handkerchief. Patricia shuddered. For some time they were silent. Patricia was content to enjoy the unaccustomed sense of swift movement, coupled with the feeling of the luxury of a Rolls-Royce. From time to time Bone glanced at her and smiled, and she was conscious of returning the smile. Although in the light of what she intended to say, she felt that smiles were not appropriate. The car sped along the base-water road, threaded its way through Hammerswith Broadway, and passed over the bridge, across Barnes Common into Priory Lane, and finally into Richmond Park. Bone had not mentioned where he intended to take her, and Patricia was glad. She was essentially feminine, and liked having things decided for her, the more so as she invariably had to decide for herself. The way across the park Bone turned in the direction of Kingston Gate, and a minute later drew up just off the roadway. Having stopped the engine, he turned to her. "'Now, Patricia,' he said with a smile, "'I am at your mercy. There is no one within hail.' Bone's voice recalled her from dreamland. She was thinking how different everything might have been but for that unfortunate unconvention. With an effort she came down to earth to find Bone smiling into her eyes. It was an effort for her to assume the indignation she had previously felt. Bone's presence seemed to dissipate her anger. Why had she not written to him, instead of endeavouring to express verbally what she knew she would fail to convey? "'Please don't be too hard on me, Patricia,' pleaded Bone. Patricia looked at him. She wished he would not smile at her in that way, and assume an air of penitence. It was so disarming. It was unfair. He was taking a mean advantage. He was always taking a mean advantage of her, always putting her in the wrong. By keeping her face carefully averted from his, she was able to tinge her voice with indignation, as she demanded. "'Why did you not tell me who you were?' "'But I did,' he protested. "'You said that you were colonel Bone, and you are not. Patricia was pleased to find her sense of outraged indignation increasing. You have made me ridiculous in the eyes of everyone at Galvin House.' "'But,' protested Bone, "'it is no good saying, but,' replied Patricia unreasonably, "'you know I'm right.' "'But I told you my name was Bone,' he said, and later I told you that my rank was that of a left hand colonel, both of which are quite correct. "'You are Lord Peter Bone, and you've made me ridiculous.' Then conscience of the absurdity of her words Patricia laughed, but there was no mirth in her laughter. "'Made you ridiculous?' said Bone, concerned in his voice. "'But how?' "'Oh, I'm not referring to your boy messengers and telegrams, florist shops, confectioners' stocks,' said Patricia. "'But all the tabbies in Galvin House set themselves to work to find out who you were, and—and—look what an absurd figure I cut! Then, of course, Aunt Adelaide must butt in.'" "'Aunt Adelaide?' repeated Bone, knitting his brows. "'Tabbies at Galvin House?' "'If you repeat my words like that I shall scream,' said Patricia. "'I wish you would try and be intelligent.' Miss Wengle told Aunt Adelaide that I am engaged to Lord Peter Bone. Aunt Adelaide then asked me about my engagement, and I had to make up some sort of story about Colonel Bone. She then inquired if it were true that I was engaged to Lord Peter Bone. "'Of course,' I said, "'no, and that is where we are at present, and you've got to help me out. You got me into the mess.'" "'Mide I inquire who Aunt Adelaide is, please, Patricia.' Bone's humility made him very difficult to talk to. "'Aunt Adelaide is my sole surviving relative,' said Patricia. If I had my way she would be neither surviving nor a relative, but as it happens she is both, and to-morrow afternoon at half-past five she is coming to Galvin House to receive a full explanation of my conduct.' Bone compressed his lips and wrinkled his forehead, but there was laughter in his eyes. "'It's difficult, isn't it, Patricia?' he said. "'It's absurd, and please don't call me Patricia.' "'But we're engaged, and—' "'We're nothing of the sort,' she said. "'But we are,' protested Bone. "'I can—' "'Never mind what you can do,' she retorted. "'What am I to tell Aunt Adelaide at half-past five to-morrow evening?' "'Why not tell her the truth,' said Bone. "'Isn't that just like a man?' Patricia addressed the query to a deer that was eyeing the car curiously from some fifty yards distance. "'Tell the truth,' she repeated scornfully. "'But how much will that help us?' "'Well, let's tell a lie,' protested Bone, smiling. "'And then Patricia did a weak and foolish thing. She laughed, and Bone laughed. Finally they sat and looked at each other helplessly. "'However you got those,' she nodded at the ribbons on his breast. "'I don't know. It was certainly not for being intelligent.' For a minute Bone did not reply. He was apparently lost in thought. Presently he turned to Patricia. "'Look here,' he said. "'By half-past five to-morrow afternoon I have found a solution. "'Now can't we talk about something pleasant?' "'There is nothing pleasant to talk about when Aunt Adelaide is looming on the horizon. "'She's about the most unpleasant thing next to chill-blanes that I know.' "'I suppose,' said Bone tentatively. "'You couldn't solve the difficulty by marrying me by special license?' "'Marry you by special license?' "'Quite Patricia in amazement?' "'Yes, it would put everything right.' "'I think you must be mad,' said Patricia with decision, but conscious that her cheeks were very hot. "'I think I must be in love,' was Bone's quiet retort. "'Will you?' "'Not even to escape Aunt Adelaide's interrogation. "'Would I marry you by special or any other license?' said Patricia with decision. Bone turned away, a shadow falling across his face. Then a moment after, drawing his cigarette case from his pocket, he inquired, "'Shall we smoke?' Patricia accepted the cigarette he offered her. She watched him as he lighted first hers than his own. She saw the frown that had settled upon his usually happy face, and noted the staccatoed manner in which he smoked. Then she became conscious that she'd been lacking in not only graciousness, but common civility. Instinctively she put out her hand and touched his coat sleeve. "'Please forgive me. I was rather a beast, wasn't I?' she said. He looked round and smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "'Please try and understand,' she said. "'And now, will you drive me home?' Bone looked at her for a moment. Then, getting out of the car, started the engine, and without a word, climbed back to his seat. Her journey back was performed in silence. At Galvin House, Gustav, who was on a lookout, threw open the door with a flourish. In saying good night, neither referred to the subject of their conversation. As Patricia entered, the lounge seemed suddenly to empty its contents into the hall. "'I hope you enjoyed your ride,' said Mr. Bolton. "'I hate motoring,' said Patricia. Then she walked upstairs, with a curd, good night, leaving a group of surprised people speculating as to the cause of her mood, and deeply commiserating with bone.' Chapter 8 Lord Peter's S.O.S. The bath is ready, my lord. Lord Peter Bone opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge that another day had dawned. He stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously. For the next few moments he lay watching his man, Peel, as he moved noiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether such precision and self-repression were natural or acquired. To Bone, Peel was a source of never-ending interest. No matter at what hour Bone had seen him, Peel always appeared as if he'd just shaved. In his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governed by one law, order. He was noiseless, worthless, selfless. Bone was convinced that were he to die suddenly, and someone chanced a call, Peel would merely say, "'His lordship is not at home, sir.' Thinner face, small of stature, precise of movement, Peel possessed the individuality of negation. He looked nothing a particular, seemed nothing a particular, did everything to perfection. His face was a barrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to the curious. He betrayed neither emotion nor confidence. In short, he was the most perfect gentleman servant in existence. "'What's the time, Peel?' inquired Bone. "'7.43, my lord,' replied the meticulous Peel, glancing at the clock on the mental-piece. "'Have I any engagements to-day?' queried his master. "'No, my lord, you have refused to make any since last Thursday morning.' Then Bone remembered. He had pleaded pressure at the war-offers as an excuse for declining all invitations. He was determined that nothing should interfere with his seeing Patricia, should she unbend. With the thought of Patricia returned the memory of the previous night's events. Bone cursed himself for the mess he had made of things. Every act of his had seemed to result only in one thing, the angering of Patricia. Even then things might have gone well if it had not been for his wretched bad luck and being the son of a peer. As he lay watching Peel, Bone fell in a mood to condol with himself. Confounded, surely it could not be urged against him as his fault that he had a wretched title. He had been given no say in the matter. As for telling Patricia, could he immediately on meeting her blurt out, I am a lord? Supposing he had introduced himself as Lieutenant Colonel Lord Peter Bone. How ridiculous it would have sounded. He had come to hate the very sound of the word Lord. It's ten minutes to eight, my lord. It was Peel's voice that broke in upon his reflections. Oh, damn! cried Bone, as he threw his legs out of bed and sat looking at Peel. I beg pardon, my lord. I said, damn! replied Bone. Yes, my lord. Bone regarded Peel narrowly. He was confoundedly irritating this morning. He seemed to be my lording his master, especially to annoy him. There was, however, no sign upon Peel's features or in his watery blue eyes indicating that he was other than in his normal frame of mind. Why couldn't Patricia be sensible? Why must she take up this absurd attitude, contorting every action of his into a covert insult? Why above all things couldn't women be reasonable? Bone rose, stretched himself, and walked across to the bathroom. As he was about to enter he looked over his shoulder. If, he said, you can arrange to remind me of my infernal title as little as possible during the next few days, Peel, I shall feel infinitely obliged. Yes, my lord, was the response. Bone banked the door savagely, and Peel rang to order breakfast. During the meal Bone pondered over the events of the previous evening, and in particular over Patricia's unreasonableness. His once was of comfort was that she had appealed to him to put things right about her aunt. That would involve his seeing her again. He did not, or would not, see that he was the only one to whom she could appeal. Bone always breakfasted in his own sitting-room. It is like this fellow man in the early morning. Looking up suddenly from the table he called Peel's expressionless eye upon him. Peel? Yes, my lord. Why is it that we Englishmen dislike each other so at breakfast? Peel paused for a moment. I've heard it said, my lord, that we're half an inch taller in the morning. Perhaps our perceptions are more acute also. Bone looked at Peel curiously. You're a philosopher, he said, and I'm afraid a bit of a cynic. I hope not, my lord, responded Peel. Bone pushed back his chair and rose, receiving from Peel his cap, cane, and gloves. By the way, he said, I want you to ring up Lady Turnagra and ask her to lunch with me at half-fast one. Tell her it's very important, and ask her not to fail me. Yes, my lord, it shall be attended to. Bone went out. Lady Turnagra was Bone's only sister. As children they had been inseparable, forced into an alliance by the overbearing nature of their elder brother, the heir, Viscount Bone, who would succeed to the title as the eighth markers of Mayfield. Bone was five years older than his sister, who had just passed her twenty-third birthday, and, as a frail, sensitive child, she had instinctively looked to him for protection against her elder brother. Their comradeship was that of mutual understanding. For one to say to the other, don't fail me, meant that any engagement, however pressing, would be put off. There was a tacit acknowledgement that their comradeship stood before all else. Each to the other was unique. Thus when Bone sent a message to Lady Turnagra through Peel, asking her not to fail him, he knew that she would keep the appointment. He knew equally well that it would involve her in the breaking of some other engagement, for there were few girls in London so popular as Lady Turnagra Bone. Further was an important social function, Lady Turnagra Bone was sure to be there, and it was equally certain that the photographers of the Illustrated and Society Papers would so manoeuvre that she came into the particular group or groups they were taking. The seventh markers of Mayfield was an enthusiastic collector of Turnagra figurines, and, overruling his lady's protestations, he had determined to call his first and only daughter, Turnagra. Lady Mayfield had begged for a second name, but the markers had been resolute. Turnagra I will have her christened, and Turnagra I will have her called, he had said, with a smile that, if it mitigated the sternness of his expression, did not in any way undermine his determination. Lady Mayfield knew her lord, and also that her only chance of ruling him was by showing unfailing tact. She therefore bowed to his decision. Poor child, she had remarked, as she looked down at the frail little might in the hollow of her arm. You're certainly going to be made ridiculous, but I've done my best. And Lord Mayfield had come across the room and kissed his wife with the remark, There you're wrong, my dear. It's going to help to make her a great success. Imagine the lady Turnagra bone. Why, it would make a celebrity of the most commonplace female. Or, at that, both smiled. As a child, Lady Turnagra had been teased unmercifully about her name, so much so that she had almost hated it. But later, when she had come to love the figurines that were so much part of her father's life, she had learned not only to respect, but to be proud of the name. To her friends and intimates, she was always Tan, to the less intimate Lady Tan, and to the world at large Lady Turnagra bone. She had once found the name extremely useful, when in process of being proposed to by an undesirable of the name of Black. It's no good, she had said, I could never marry you, no matter what the state of my feelings. Think how ridiculous we should both be. Everybody would call us Black and Tan. It sounds like a whiskey as well as a dog. Whereupon Mr. Black had laughed, and there remained friends, which was a great tribute to Lady Turnagra. Exquisitely pretty, sympathetic, witty, human, Lady Turnagra bone was a favourite wherever she went. She seemed incapable of making enemies even amongst her own sex. Her taste in dress was as unerring as in literature and art. Everything she did or said was without effort. She had been proposed to by half the eligible and all the ineligible in London, as Bone phrased, but she declared she would never marry until Peter married, and had thus got somebody else to mother him. At a quarter past one when Bone left the war office, he found Lady Turnagra waiting in her car outside. Hello Tan, he cried, what a brainy idea, picking up the poor tired warrior. It'll save you a taxi, Peter, I'll tell you what to do with the shilling as we go along. Lady Turnagra smiled up into her brother's face. She was always happy with Peter. As she swung the car across Whitehall to get into the northbound stream of traffic, Bone looked down at her sister. She handled her big car with dexterity and ease. She was a dainty creature with regular features, violet blue eyes, and golden hair that seemed to defy all constrained. There was a tilt about her chin that showed determination, and that about her eyebrows, which suggested something more than good judgment. I hope you weren't doing anything today, Tan, said Bone, as they came to a standstill at the top of Whitehall, waiting for the removal of a blue arm that barred their progress. I was lunching with the bullsevers, but I'm not well enough, I'm afraid, to see them. It's measles, you know. Good heavens, Tan, what do you mean? Well, I had to say something that would be regarded as a sufficient excuse for breaking a luncheon engagement of three weeks standing. Quite a lot of people were invited to meet me. I'm awfully sorry, began Bone, apologetically. Oh, it's all right, was the reply as the car jumped forward. I shall be deluded with fruit and flowers now from all sorts of people, because the bullsevers are sure to spread it round that I'm in extremis. Tomorrow, however, I shall announce that it was a wrong diagnosis. Lady Tanagra drew the car up to the curb outside dense. I think, she said, indicating an old woman selling matches. We'll give her the shilling for the taxi, Peter, shall we? Peter beckoned the old woman and handed her a shilling with a smile. It doesn't make you feel particularly virtuous to be charitable with another's money, he inquired. Lady Tanagra made a grimace. Over lunch they talked upon general topics and about common friends. Lady Tanagra made no reference to the important matter that had caused her to be summoned to lunch, even at the expense of having measles as an excuse. That was characteristic of her. She had nothing of a woman's curiosity, at least she never showed it, particularly with Peter. After lunch they went to the lounge for coffee. When they had been served and both were smoking, bone remarked casually, Got any engagement for this afternoon, Tan? Tea at the carton at half-fast-four. Then I promised to run in to see the Graeums before dinner. I'm afraid it will mean more flowers and fruit. Oh, she replied, I suppose I must stick to measles. I shall have to buy some thanks for kind inquiries cards as I go home. During lunch, bone had been wondering how he could approach the subject of Patricia. He could not tell even Tanagra how it met her. That was Patricia's secret, as she chose to tell that was another matter, but he could not. As a rule he found it easy to talk to Tanagra and explain things, but this was a little unusual. Lady Tanagra watched him shrewdly for a minute or two. I think I should just say it as it comes, Peter. She remarked in a casual, matter-effect tone. Bone started and unlawed. What I want is a sponsor for an acquaintancehip between myself and a girl. I cannot tell you everything, Tan. She may decide to, but, of course, you know it's all right. Why, of course, broke in, Lady Tanagra, with an error of conviction which contained something of a reproach that he should have thought it necessary to mention such a thing. Well, you've got to do a bit of lying, too, I'm afraid. Oh, that will be all right. The natural consequence of a high temperature through measles. Lady Tanagra saw that Bone was ill at ease and soared by her lightness to simplify things for him. How long have I known her, she proceeded? Oh, that yet better settle with her. All that is necessary is for you to have met her somewhere or somehow and to have introduced me to her. And who is to receive these explanations, inquired Lady Tanagra? Her aunt, a gorgon. Does the girl know that you are—that I am to throw myself into the breach? No, said Peter. I didn't think to tell her. I said that I would arrange things. Her name's Patricia Brent. She is private secretary to Arthur Bonser of 426 Eaton Square, and she lives at Galvin House Residential Hotel to give it its full title, Eight Galvin Street Basewater. Her aunt is to be at Galvin House at half-past five this afternoon when I have to be explained to her. Oh, it's most devilish, awkward tan, because I can't tell you the fact of the case. I wish you were here. That's all right, Peter. I'll put things right. What time does she leave Eaton Square? Five o'clock, I think. Good. Leave it to me. By the way, where shall you be if I want to get at you? When? Say, six o'clock? I'll be back here at six and wait until seven. That will do. Now I really must be going. I've got to telephone to these people about the measles. Shall I run you down to Whitehall? No, thanks. I think I'll walk. And with that he saw into her car and turned to walk back to Whitehall, thanking his stars for being possessed of such a sister, and marveling at her wisdom. He had not the most remote idea of how she would achieve her purpose, but achieve it he was convinced she would. It was notorious that Lady Tenegra never failed in anything she undertook. While Bowen and his sister were lunching at the quadrant, Patricia was endeavouring to concentrate her mind upon our work. The egregious Arthur, as she called him to herself in her more impatient moments, had been very trying that morning. He'd been in a particularly indeterminate mood, which involved the altering and changing of almost every sentence he dictated. In the usual way he was content to tell Patricia what he wanted to say, and let her clothe it in fitting words, but this morning he'd insisted on dictating every letter, with a result that her notes had become hopelessly involved, and she was experiencing great difficulty in reading them. Added to this was the fact that she could not keep her thoughts from straying to Aunt Adelaide. What would happen that afternoon? What was Bowen going to do to save the situation? He had promised to see her through. But how was he going to do it? End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 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 9 Lady Tanagra takes a hand. At a quarter to five, Patricia left the library to go upstairs to put on her hat and coat. In the hall she encountered Mrs. Bonser. Finished, interrogated that lady in a tone of voice that implied she was perfectly well aware of the fact that it wanted still a quarter of an hour to the time at which Patricia was supposed to be free. No, there are still some left, but I'm going home, said Patricia. There was something in her voice and appearance that prompted Mrs. Bonser to smile her artificial smile and a remark that she thought Patricia was quite right, the weather being very trying. Once she left the Bonser's house, Patricia was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the large gray car standing a few yards up the square with a girl at the steering wheel. Patricia turned in the opposite direction from that in which the car stood, making her way towards Sloan Street to get her bus. She had not gone many steps when the big car slid silently up beside her and she heard a voice say, can't I give you a lift to Galvin House? She turned round and saw a fair-haired girl smiling at her from the car. I, I, jump in, won't you? Said the girl. But, but I think you've made a mistake. You're Patricia Brent, aren't you? Yes, said Patricia, smiling, that's my name. Well then, jump in and I'll run you up to Galvin House. Don't delay or you'll be too late for your aunt. Patricia looked at the girl in mute astonishment, but proceeded to get into the car. There seemed nothing else to be done. As she did so, the fair-haired girl laughed brightly. It's awfully mean of me to take such an advantage, but I couldn't resist it. I'm Peter's sister, Tenagra. Oh, said Patricia, light dawning upon her and turning to Tenagra with a smile. Then you're the solution. Yes, said Lady Tenagra. I'm going to see you two out of the mess you've somehow or other got into. Suddenly Patricia stiffened. Did he, did he tell you? Not he, said Lady Tenagra, shoving on the brakes suddenly to avoid a crawling taxi that had swung round without any warning. Peter doesn't talk. But then, how do you... Well, said Lady Tenagra, he told me that I was to be the one who had introduced him to you and explained him to your aunt. It's all over London that I've got measles and there will be simply piles of flowers and fruit arriving at Grossner Square by every possible conveyance. Measles, cried Patricia, uncomprehendingly. Yes, you see, when Peter wants me, I always have to throw up any sort of engagement and he does the same for me. When he asked me to lunch with him today and said it was important, I had to give some reasonable excuse to three lots of people to whom I had pledged myself and I thought measles would do quite nicely. Patricia laughed in spite of herself. So you don't know anything except that you've got to... Sponsor you, interrupted Lady Tenagra. For some time, Patricia was silent. She felt she could tell her story to this girl who was so trustful that everything was all right and who was willing to do anything to help her brother. Can't we go slowly whilst I talk to you, said Patricia, as they turned into the park? We'll do better than that, said Lady Tenagra. We'll stop and sit down for five minutes. She pulled up the car near the stand-up gate and they found a quiet spot under a tree. I cannot allow you to enter into this affair, said Patricia, without telling you the whole story. What you will think of me afterwards, I don't know, but I've got myself into a most horrible mess. She then proceeded to explain the whole situation, how it came about that she had come to no bone and the upshot of the meeting. Lady Tenagra listened without interruption and without betraying by her expression what were her thoughts. And now what do you think of me? Demanded Patricia, when she had concluded. For a moment, Lady Tenagra rested her hand upon Patricia's. I think, you goose, that had you known Peter better, there would not have been so much need for you to worry, but there isn't much time and we've got to prepare. Now, listen carefully. First of all, you must call me Ten or Tenagra and I must call you Patricia or Pat or whatever you like. Secondly, as it would take too long to find out if we've got any friends in common, you went to the VAD depot in St. George's Crescent to see if you could do anything to help. There you met me. I'm quite a shining light there, by the way, and we paled up. This led to my introducing Peter and, well, all the rest is quite easy. But there isn't any rest, so Patricia, don't you see how horribly awkward it is? I'm supposed to be engaged to him. Oh, said Lady Tenagra quietly, that's a matter for you and Peter to settle between you. I'm afraid I can't interfere there. All I can do is to explain how you and he came to know each other and now we'd better be getting on as your aunt will not be pleased if you kept her waiting. What I propose to do is to pick her up and take her up to the quadrant where we shall find Peter. But, protested Patricia, that's simply getting us more involved than ever. Well, I'm afraid it's got to be, said Lady Tenagra, smiling mischievously. It's much better that they should meet at the quadrant than at Galvin House, where you say everybody's so catty. Patricia saw the force of Lady Tenagra's argument and they were soon whirling on their way towards Galvin House. She wanted to pinch herself to be quite sure that she was not dreaming. Everything seemed to be happening with such rapidity that her brain refused to keep pace with events. Why had she not met these people in a conventional way so that she might preserve their friendship? It was hard luck, she told herself. Would you mind telling me what you propose doing? Enquired Patricia. I promised Peter to gather up the pieces, was the response. All you've got to do is to remain quiet. Lady Tenagra brought the car up in front of Galvin House with a magnificent sweep. Gustave, who'd been on the watch, swung open the door in his most impressive manner. As Patricia and Lady Tenagra entered the lounge, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Moskrup's smith were addressing pleasantries to a particularly grim Miss Brent. Oh, here you are! Miss Brent's exclamation was uttered in such a voice as to pierce even the thick skin of Miss Wangle, who, having instantly recognized Lady Tenagra, retired with Mrs. Moskrup's smith a few yards, where they carried on a whispered conversation, casting significant glances at Lady Tenagra, Miss Brent, and Patricia. I told Patricia that it was time the families met, said Lady Tenagra, and so I insisted on coming when I heard you were to be here. I think you are quite right. Patricia was surprised at the change in her aunt. Much of her usual uncompromising downrightness had been shed, and she appeared almost gracious. For one thing, she was greatly impressed at the thought that Patricia was to become Lady Peter Bowne. As the aunt of Lady Peter Bowne, Miss Brent saw that her own social position would be considerably improved. She saw herself taking precedence at Little Milstead and issuing its social life and death warrants. Apart from these considerations, Miss Brent was not indifferent to Lady Tenagra's personal charm. Ten's parlor tricks, as Gottfried Elton called them, were notorious. Everyone was aware of their existence, yet everyone fell an instant victim. A compound of earnestness, deference, pleading, irresistible impertinence, and dignity, they formed a dangerous weapon. Lady Tenagra's position among her friends and acquaintance was unique. When difficulties and contentions arose, the party's instinctive impulse was to endeavor to invest her interest. Tenagra is so sensible, outraged parenthood would exclaim. Ten's such a sport, she'll understand, cried rebellious youth. People not only asked Lady Tenagra's advice, but took it. The secret of her success, unknown to herself, was her knowledge of human nature, even those against whom she gave her decisions, bore her no ill will. Her manner towards Miss Brent was a mixture of laughter and seriousness with deft little touches of deference. I've come to apologize for everybody and everything, Miss Brent, she cried, but in particular for myself. Lady Tenagra chatted on gaily, sparring for an opening, Elton called it. You mustn't blame Patricia, she bubbled in her soft musical voice. It's all Peter's fault, and where it's not his fault, it's mine, she proceeded illogically. You won't be hard on us, will you? She looked up at Miss Brent with the demureness of a child expecting severe rebuke for some naughtiness. Miss Brent's eyes narrowed and the firm line of her lips widened. Patricia recognized this as the outward evidences of a smile. I confess I'm greatly puzzled, began Miss Brent. Of course you must be, continued Lady Tenagra, and if you're not so kind, you'll be very cross, especially with me. Now, she continued, without giving Miss Brent a chance of replying, I want you to do me a very great favor. Lady Tenagra paused impressively and gave Miss Brent her most pleading look. Miss Brent, look at Lady Tenagra with just a tinge of suspicion in her pea-soup-coloured eyes. May I ask what it is? She inquired garlantly. I want you to let me carry you off to a quiet place where you can talk. Miss Brent rose at once. She disliked Galvin House and the inquisitive glances of its inmates. I told Peter to be at the quadrant until seven. He's very anxious to meet you, continued Lady Tenagra as they moved towards the door. I would not let him come here as I thought from what Patricia has told me that you would not care to... She paused. You are quite right, Lady Tenagra, said Miss Brent with decision. I do not like warning houses. They are not the places for the discussion of family affairs. Patricia descended the steps of Galvin House, not quite sure whether this were a reality or a dream. She watched Miss Brent see herself beside Lady Tenagra whilst she herself entered the tunnel of the car. As the door clicked and the car sprang forward, she caught a glimpse of eager faces at the windows of Galvin House. As they swung into the park and hummed along the even road, Patricia endeavored to bring herself to earth. She pinched herself until it hurt. What had happened? She felt like someone present at her own funeral. Her fate was being decided without anyone seeming to think it necessary to consult her. By half past five tomorrow afternoon, Arshale found a solution. Bone's words came back to her. He was right. Lady Tenagra was indeed a solution. Patricia and Miss Brent were merely lay figures. It must be wonderful to be able to make people do what you wished, she mused. She wondered what would have happened had Bone possessed his sister's powers. At the quadrant, Peele was waiting in the vestibule. With a bow that impressed Miss Brent, he conducted them to Bone's suite. As they entered, Bone sprang up from a writing table. Patricia noticed that there was no smell of tobacco smoke. The bones were a wonderful family, she decided, remembering her aunt's prejudices. I've only just heard you were in town, she heard Bone explaining to Miss Brent. I rang up Patricia this morning, but she could not remember your address. Patricia gasped. But seeing the effect of the gray lie, it was not quite innocent enough to be called a white lie, she told herself. She forgave it. During tea, Lady Tenagra and Bone set to work to play themselves in, as Lady Tenagra afterwards expressed it. Poor Aunt Adelaide, Patricia murmured to herself, they'll turn her giddy young head. And now, Lady Tenagra began, when Bone had taken Miss Brent's cup from her. I must explain all about this little romance and how it came about. Patricia caught Bone's eye and saw in it a look of eager interest. Patricia wanted to do war work in her spare time, continued Lady Tenagra. So she applied to the VAD at St. George's Crescent. I am on the committee, and by a happy chance, Lady Tenagra smiled across to Patricia, she was sent in to me. I saw she was not strong and dissuaded her. Miss Brent nodded approval. I explained, continued Lady Tenagra, that the work was very hard and that it was not necessarily patriotic to overwork so as to get ill. Doctors have quite an afternoon. Again Miss Brent nodded agreement. I think we liked each other from the first. Again Lady Tenagra smiled across at Patricia and I asked her to come and have tea with me and we became friends. Finally, one day, when we were enjoying a quiet talk here in the lounge, this big brother of mine comes along and spoils everything. Lady Tenagra regarded Bone with her approachful eyes. Spoiled everything, inquired Miss Brent. Yes, by falling in love with my friend and in the most treacherous manner she must do the same. Lady Tenagra's tone was matter-effect enough to deceive a misanthropist. Patricia's cheeks burned and her eyes fell beneath the gaze of the others. She felt as a man might who reads his own obituary notices. And why was I not told? Her soul surviving relative. Miss Brent repped out the question with the air of a council for the prosecution. That was my fault, broken Bone. Three pairs of eyes were instantly turned upon him. Miss Brent suspicious, Lady Tenagra admiring, Patricia wondering. And why, may I ask, inquired Miss Brent. I wanted it to be a secret between Patricia and me, explained Bone easily. But, Lady Tenagra, there was a note in Miss Brent's voice that Patricia recognized as a soldier that's the gas-gong. Oh, replied Bone. She finds out everything, but I only told her at lunch today. And he told me as if I'd not already discovered the fact for myself. Laughed Lady Tenagra. Patricia wanted to tell you, continued Bone. She has often talked of you. Patricia felt sure Aunt Adelaide must hear her start of surprise. But I wanted to wait until we could go to you together and confess. Bone smiled straight into his list in his eyes, a quiet, friendly smile that would have disarmed a gorgon. For a few moments there was silence. Miss Brent was thinking, thinking as a judge of things who is about to deliver a sentence. And, Lady Mayfield, does she know? She inquired. Without giving Bone a chance to reply, Lady Tenagra rushed in as if fearful that he might make a false move. That's another of Peter's follies, keeping it from Mother. He argued that if the engagement were officially announced the family would take up all Patricia's time and he would see nothing of her. No, Peter's very selfish sometimes, I'm sorry to say. But, she added with inspiration, everything will have to come out now. Of course! Patricia started at the decision in Miss Brent's tone. She looked across at Bone, who was regarding Lady Tenagra with an admiration that amounted almost to reverence. As he looked up, Patricia's eyes fell. What was happening to her? She was getting further into the net woven by her own folly. Lady Tenagra was getting them out of the tangle into which they had got themselves. But was she not involving them in a worse? Patricia knew her aunt. Lady Tenagra did not. Therein laid a key to the whole situation. Miss Brent rose to go. Patricia saw that judgment was to be deferred. She shook hands with Lady Tenagra and Bone, and, finally, turning to Patricia said, I think, Patricia, that you've been very indiscreet in not taking me into your confidence. You're so surviving relative! And with that, she went, having refused Lady Tenagra's offer to drive her to her hotel, pleading that she had another call to make. When Bone returned from seeing Miss Brent into a taxi, the three culprits regarded each other. All felt that they had come under the ban of Miss Brent's displeasure. It was Lady Tenagra who broke the silence. Well, we're all in it now, up to the neck, she laughed. Bone smiled happily, but Patricia looked alarmed. Lady Tenagra went over to her and, bending down, kissed her lightly on the cheek. Patricia looked up, and Bone saw that her eyes were suspiciously moist. With a murmured apology about a note he was expecting, he left the room. That night the three dined at the quadrant to get to know each other, as Lady Tenagra said. When Patricia reached Galvin House, having refused to allow Bone to see her home, she was conscious of having spent another happy evening. Up to the neck in it, she murmured, as she tossed back her hair, and began to brush it for the night. Over the top of her heads, I should say, End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 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 10. Miss Brent's Strategy Having become reconciled to what she regarded as Patricia's matrimonial plans, although strongly disapproving of her deplorable flippancy, Miss Brent decided that her niece's position must be established in the eyes of her prospective relatives-in-law. Miss Brent was proud of her family, but still proud of the fact that the founder had come over with that extremely dubious collection of notables introduced into England by William of Normandy. To Miss Brent, William the Conqueror was what the Mayflower is to all ambitious Americans, a social jumping-off point. There were no army lists in 1066 or passengers lists in 1620. No one could say with any degree of certainty what it was that Geoffrey Brent did for or knew about his Duke-O-Master, but it was sufficiently important to gain for him a grand of lands which he had no more right to occupy than the Norman head to bestow. After careful thought, Miss Brent had decided upon a line of operations. Geoffrey Brent was to be used as a corrective to Patricia's occupation. No family, Miss Brent argued, could be expected to welcome with open arms a girl who earned her living as a secretary of an unknown member of parliament. She foresaw complications, fierce opposition, possibly an attempt to break off the engagement. To defeat this, Geoffrey Brent was to be disinterred and flung into the conflict, and Patricia was to owe to her aunt the happiness that was to be hers. Incidentally, Miss Brent saw in this circumstance a very useful foundation upon which to build for herself a position in the future. Miss Brent had made up her mind upon two points, one that she would call upon Lady Mayfield, the other that Patricia's engagement must be announced. The bread told her all she wanted to know about the bones, and she strongly disapproved of what she termed whole in the corner engagements. The merit of a Brent to a bone was to her an alliance carrying with it certain social responsibilities. Consequently society must be advised of what was impending. Romance was a by-product that did not concern either Miss Brent or society. Purpose and decision were to Miss Brent what wings and tail are to the swallow. They propelled and directed her. Her mind once made up to change it would have appeared to Miss Brent an unpardonable sign of weakness. Circumstances might alter, thrones totter, but Miss Brent's decisions would remain unshaken. On the day following her meeting with Lady Tanagra and Bone Miss Brent did three things. She transferred to the Mayfair Hotel for one night. She prepared an announcement of the engagement for the morning post, and she set out to call upon Lady Mayfield in Grosson Square. The transference to the Mayfair Hotel served a double purpose. It would impress the people at the newspaper office, and it would also show that Patricia's kinswoman was of some importance. As Patricia was tapping out upon a typewriter the halting eloquence of Mr Arthur Bonser, Miss Brent was being whirled in a taxi first to the office of the morning post and then on to Grosson Square. I fully appreciate, tapped Patricia with a wandering attention, the national importance of pigs. Miss Brent announced Lady Mayfield's butler. Miss Brent found herself gazing into a pair of violet eyes that were smiling a greeting out of a gentle face framed in white hair. How do you do? Lady Mayfield was endeavouring to recall where she could have met her caller. I felt it was time the families met, announced Miss Brent. Lady Mayfield smiled, that gentle, reluctant smile so characteristic of her. She was puzzled but too well bred to show it. Won't you have some tea? She looked about her, then fixing her eyes upon a dark man in khaki with smouldering eyes, called to him, introduced him and had just time to say, Godfrey, see that Miss Brent has some tea. When a rush of callers swept Miss Brent and Captain Godfrey Elson further into the room. Miss Brent looked about her with interest. She had read of how Lady Mayfield had turned her houses, both town and country into convalescent homes for soldiers but she was surprised to see men in hospital garb mixing freely with the other guests. Elson saw her surprise. Lady Mayfield has her own ideas of what is best. He remarked as he handed her a cup of tea. Miss Brent looked up interrogatingly. She had some difficulty at first, continued Elton, but eventually she got her own way as she always does. Now the official hospitals sent her their most puzzling cases and she cures them. How? inquired Miss Brent with interest. Imagination, said Elton, bowing to a pretty brunette at the other side of the room. She is too wise to try and fatten a cannery on a dark biscuit. Does she keep canneries then? inquired Miss Brent. I'm afraid that was only my clumsy effort at metaphor, responded Elton with a disarming smile. She adopts human methods. They are generally successful. Elton went on to describe something of the success that had attended Lady Mayfield's Hostels, as she called them. They were famous throughout the service. When war broke out, someone had suggested that she should use her tact and knowledge of human nature in treating cases that defied the army emos. A tyrant is the first victim of tact, Godfrey Elton had said of Lord Mayfield, and in his ready acquiescence in his lady's plans, Lord Mayfield had tacitly concurred. Lady Mayfield had conferred with her lord in respect to all her plans and arrangements until he had come to regard the hostels as the children of his own brain, admirably controlled and conducted by his wife. He seldom appeared, keeping to the one place free from the flood of red, white and blue, his library. Here, with his books and terracottas, he grew old with the grace worthy of his rank, as Elton phrased it. Lady Mayfield's cases were mostly those of shell shock or nervous troubles. She studied each patient's needs and decided whether he required diversion or quiet. If diversion, he was sent to a townhouse. If quiet, he went to one of her country houses. At first it had been thought that a woman could not discipline a number of men that Lady Mayfield had settled this by allowing them to discipline themselves. All misdemeanors were reported to and judged by a committee of five elected by ballot from among the patients. Their decisions were referred to Lady Mayfield for ratification. The result was that in no military hospital or convalescent home in the country was the discipline so good. Miss Brand listened perfunctorily to Elton's description of Lady Mayfield's success. She had not come to Groesner Square to hear about hostels or the curing of shell-shocked soldiers and her eyes roved restlessly about the room. You know Lord Peter, she inquired at length. Intimately Elton replied as he took a cup from her. Do you like him? Miss Brand was always direct, unquestionably. Elton's tone was that of a man who found nothing unusual either in the matter or method of interrogation. Is he steady? The next question. As a rock, responded Elton, beginning to enjoy a novel experience. Why doesn't he live here? demanded Miss Brand. Who, Peter? Miss Brand nodded. No room, the soldiers, you know, he added. No room for our own son? Miss Brand's tone was in itself an accusation against Lady Mayfield of unnaturalness. Oh, Peter understands, I have no explanation. Oh, Miss Brand looked sharply at him. For a minute there was silence. You have been wounded? Miss Brand indicated the blue band upon his arm. Her question arose not from any interest she felt, but she required time in which to reorganize her attack. I am only waiting for my final medical board, as I hope, Elton replied. You know Lady T'Negra, Miss Brand was feeling some annoyance with this extremely self-possessed young man. Yes, was Elton's reply. He wondered if the next question would deal with her steadiness. I suppose you're a friend of the family, was Miss Brand's next question. Elton bowed. Good afternoon, sir. The speaker was a soldier in hospital blue, a rugged little man known among his fellows as Uncle. Hello, Uncle, how are you? said Elton, shaking hands. Miss Brand noticed a warmth in Elton's tone and was in marked contrast to the even tone of curtsy with which he had answered her questions. Oh, just up and on to heaven, sir, replied Uncle, sort of sitting up and taking notice. Elton introduced Uncle to Miss Brand, an act that seemed to her quite unnecessary. And where were you wounded? asked Miss Brand conventionally. Clean through the buttocks, ma'am, replied Uncle simply. Miss Brand flushed and cast a swift glance at Elton, whose face showed no sign. She turned to Uncle and regarded him severely, but he was blissfully unaware of having offended. Can't stand down now, ma'am, without a dirton, added Uncle, interpreting Miss Brand's steady gaze as petirking interest. Oh, Goddy, I've been trying to fight my way across to you for hours. The pretty brunette to Elton had bowed joined the group. I've been giving you the glad eye all the afternoon and you merely bow. Well, Uncle, how's the wound? Miss Brand gasped. She was unaware that Uncle's wound was the standing joke among all Lady Mayfield's guests. Oh, I'm getting on, thank you, said Uncle cheerfully. Mustn't complain. Isn't here darling? The girl addressed herself to Miss Brand, who merely stared. Do you refer to Uncle or to me? inquired Elton. Why, both, of course, but she paused and, screwing up her peckant little face, in thought, she added, I think Uncle's the darling her, though, don't you? Again, she challenged Miss Brand. Good job, my Mrs. Candier. Was Uncle's comment to Elton. There, you see, cried the girl gaily. Uncle talks about his wife when I make love to him, and as for Goddy, she turned and regarded Elton with a quizzical expression. He treats my passion with a look that clearly says prunes and prisms. Miss Brand's head was beginning to whirl. Somewhere at the back of her mind was the unuttered thought. What would little Milstead think of such a conversation? She was brought back to Lady Mayfield's drawing-room by hearing the brunette once more addressing her. They're the two most interesting men in the room. I call them the dove and the serpent. Uncle has the guilessness of the dove, whilst Gottry has all the wisdom of the serpent. The three of us together would make a most perfect garden of Eden. Wouldn't we, Goddy? You're getting a little confused, Peggy, said Elton. This is not a fancy dress. Stop him, someone, cried the brunette. He's going to say something naughty. Elton smiled. Miss Brand continued to stare, whilst Uncle with a grin of admiration cried, Lord, don't she run on. Now come along, Uncle, cried the girl. I found some topping chocolates, a new kind, they're priceless. And she dragged Uncle off to the end of the table. Who was that? demanded Miss Brand of Elton, this approval in her look and tone. Lady Peggy Bristov replied Elton. Miss Brand was impressed. The Bristovs traced their ancestries so far back as to make William the Norman's satellites look almost upstarts. She's a little overpowering at first, isn't she? remarked Elton, smiling in spite of himself at the conflicting emotions depicted upon Miss Brand's face. But Lady Peggy gave her no time to reply. She was back again like a shaft of April sunshine. Here, open your mouth, Gotti. She cried. They're delicious. Elton did as he was bid, and Lady Peggy popped her chocolate in. Then, wiping her finger and thumb daintily upon a ridiculously small piece of cambrick, she stood in front of Elton, awaiting his verdict. Like it, she demanded, her head on one side like a bird, and her whole attention concentrated upon Elton. Apart from a suggestion of furniture polish, began Elton. It is Han, cried Lady Peggy as she whisked over to where she had left Uncle. Lady Peggy is rather spoiled, said Elton to Miss Brand. I fear she trades upon having the prettiest ankles in London. Miss Brand turned upon Elton one glance, then, with head in air and lips tightly compressed, she stalked away. Elton watched her in surprise, unconscious that his casual reference to the ankles of the daughter of a peer had been to Miss Brand the last straw. Hate at the prowl and virtue at the helm, he murmured as she disappeared. Miss Brand was now convinced beyond all power of argument to the contrary that her call had landed her in the very midst of an ultra-fast said. She was unaware that Godfrey Elton was notorious among his friends for saying the wrong thing to the right people. You never know what Godfrey will say, his Aunt Caroline had remarked on one occasion when he had just confided to the vicar that all introspective women have thick ankles, and the dear vicar is so sensitive. It seemed that whenever Elton elected to emerge from the mantle of silence with which he ambitually clothed himself, it was in the presence of either a sensitive vicar or someone who was sensitive without being a vicar. Once when Lady Gilcray rebuked him for openly admiring Jenny Adams' legs which were displayed each night to an appreciative public at the futility theater, Elton had replied, a woman's legs are to me what they are to God, which had silenced her ladyship, who was not quite sure whether it was ranked blasphemy or a classical quotation, but she never forgave him. Miss Brent made several efforts to approach Lady Mayfield to have a few minutes' talk with her about the subject of her call, but without success. She was always surrounded either by arriving or departing guests and soldiers seen perpetually hovering about ready to pounce upon her at the first opportunity. At last Miss Brent succeeded in attracting her host's attention and before she knew exactly what had happened Lady Mayfield had shaken hands thanked her for coming, hoped she would come again soon, and Miss Brent was walking downstairs, her mission unaccomplished. Her only consolation was the knowledge that within the next day or two the morning post would put matters upon a correct footing. A mile away Patricia was tapping out upon her typewriter that picks are the potential saviours of the empire. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 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 Anosimum. Patricia Brent Spinster by Herbert Jenkins Chapter 11 The Defection of Mr Triggs Well, my dear, how goes it? Patricia looked up from a blue book from which she was laboriously extracting statistics. Mr Triggs stood before her, floored and happy. He was wearing a new black and white check suit, a white waistcoat and a red tie whilst in his hand he carried a white felt top hat with a black band. It doesn't go at all well, said Patricia, smiling. What's the matter, my dear? He inquired anxiously. You look fagged out. Ah! I'm endeavouring to extract information about potatoes from stupid blue books, said Patricia, leading back on her chair. Why can't they let potatoes grow without writing about them? She asked plaintively, screwing up her eyebrows. He ain't much good, is he? inquired Mr Triggs. Who? asked Patricia in surprise. A. B. Said Mr Triggs, lowering his voice and looking around furtively. Well, he strikes me. Well, you see Mr Triggs, he's rising, and you can't rise and be risen at the same time, can you? Mr Triggs shook his head doubtfully. He'll no more rise than your salary, my dear, he said. Oh! what a gloomy person you are today, Mr Triggs, and you look like a ray of sunshine. Do you like it? inquired Mr Triggs, smiling happily as he stood back that Patricia might obtain a good view of his new clothes. He now saw that over his black boots he wore a pair of immaculate white spats. You look just like a duke. But where are you going and why all this splendour? asked Patricia. Mr Triggs beamed upon her. I'm glad you liked it, my dear. I was thinking about you when I audited. Patricia looked up and smiled. There was something to her strangely lovable in this old man's simplicity. I come to take you to the zoo. he announced. It is zoo, cried Patricia, in unfeigned surprise. Mr Triggs nodded, hugely enjoying the effect of the announcement. Now run away and get your head on. But I couldn't possibly go. I've got heaps of things to do, protested Patricia. Why, Mrs Bonser would be. Never you mind about Etty. I'll manage her. She'll... I thought I heard your voice farther. Both Patricia and Mr Triggs started guiltily. They had not heard Mrs Bonser enter the room. Hello Etty. said Mr Triggs, recovering himself. I just come to take this young lady to the zoo. Do I look as bad as all that? asked Patricia, conscious that her effort was a feeble one. Don't you worry about your looks, my dear. said Mr Triggs. I'll answer for them. Now go and get your head on. But I really couldn't, Mr Triggs. protested Patricia. I'm afraid it's impossible for Miss Brent to go to-day, father, said Mrs Bonser evenly, but flashing a vindictive look at Patricia. Why? inquired Mr Triggs. I happen to know, continued Mrs Bonser, that Arthur is very anxious for some work that Miss Brent is doing for him. What work? inquired Mr Triggs. Oh, um, something about... Mrs Bonser looked appealingly at Patricia, but Patricia had no intention of helping her out. Well, if you can't remember what it is, it can't matter much, and I've set my mind on going to the zoo this afternoon. Very well, father. If you wait a few minutes, I'll go with you myself. You! exclaimed Mr Triggs in consternation. You and me at the zoo? Why, you said once the smell made you sick. Father, how can you suggest such a thing? But you did! persisted Mr Triggs. I once remarked that I found the atmosphere a little trying. Won't you come into the morning-room, father? There is something I want to speak to you about. No, I won't! snapped Mr Triggs, like a spoiled child. I'm going to take Miss Brent to the zoo. But Arthur's work, father, began Mrs Bonser. Very well, then, Eddie, accept Mr Triggs. You better tell A.B. that I'd like to have a little talk with him tomorrow afternoon at Stratham, at three o'clock sharp. See, don't forget. Mr Triggs was angry, and Mrs Bonser realized that she'd gone too far. Turning to Patricia, she said, Do you think it would matter if you put off what you're doing until tomorrow, Miss Brent? She inquired. I think I ought to do it now, Mrs Bonser, replied Patricia demurely, determined to learn Mrs Bonser more deeply into the mare, if possible. Well, if you'll run away and get your head on, I will explain to Mr Bonser when he comes in. Patricia looked up, as Mrs Bonser smiled at her, a frosty movement of her lips from which her eyes seemed to dissociate themselves. During Patricia's absence, Mr Triggs made it abundantly clear to his daughter that he was displeased with her. Look here, Eddie, if I hear any more of this nonsense, he said, I'll take on Miss Brent as my own secretary, and I can take her to the zoo every afternoon if I want to. A look of fear came into Mrs Bonser's eyes. One of the terrors of her life was that some designing woman would get hold of her father and marry him. It did not require a very great effort of the imagination to foresee that the next step would be the cutting-off of the allowance Mr Triggs made his daughter. Suppose Patricia were to marry her father. What a scandal! And what a humiliation to be the step-daughter of her husband's ex-secretary. Mrs Bonser determined to capitulate. I'm very sorry, father, but if you'd let us know, we could have arranged differently. However, everything is all right now. No it isn't, said Mr Triggs, previously. You've tried to spoil my afternoon. Fancy you are coming to the zoo with me. You with your eye are mighty ways. The truth is, you're ashamed of your old father, although you ain't ashamed of his money. It was with a feeling of gratitude that Mrs Bonser heard Patricia enter the room. I'm ready, Mr Triggs, she announced, smiling. Mr Triggs followed her out of the room without a word. You'll explain to Mr Bonser that I've been kidnapped. Will you not, said Patricia to Mrs Bonser, rather from the feeling that something should be said than from any particular desire that Mr Bonser should be placated? Certainly, Miss Brent, replied Mrs Bonser with another unconvincing smile. I hope you'll have a pleasant afternoon. Try to spoil my afternoon, she did, mumbled Mr Triggs in the tone of a child who has discovered that a playmate has endeavoured to rob him of his marbles. Patricia laughed and, slipping her hand through his arm, said, Now you mustn't be cross, or else you'll spoil my afternoon and we're going to have such a jolly time together. Instantly the shadow fell from Mr Triggs' face and he turned upon Patricia and beamed, pressing her hand against his side. Then, with another sudden change, he said, Etienne, noise me when she's like that, but I've given her something to think about, he added. Please set the recollection of his parting shot. Patricia smiled at him. She never made any endeavour to probe into the domestic difficulties of the Triggs' Bonser menage. Do you know what I told her, inquired Mr Triggs? Patricia shook her head. I said that if she wasn't careful she was my own secretary. That made her sit up. He chuckled at the thought of his master's stroke. But you've got nothing for me to secretary, Mr Triggs. Said Patricia, not quite understanding where the joke came. Ah, Etienne understands. Etienne knows that every man that ain't married marries his secretary and is dead afraid of me marrying. Am I to take that as a proposal, Mr Triggs? Asked Patricia demurely. Mr Triggs chuckled. Now we'll forget about everything, except that we're truants, cried Patricia. I've earned a holiday, I think. On Sunday and Monday there was Aunt Adelaide. Yesterday it was national importance of pigs and... Hi, hi! Taxi, taxi! Mr Triggs yelled, dashing forward and dragging Patricia after him. A taxi was crossing his street about twenty yards distance. Mr Triggs was impulsive in all things. Having secured the taxi he told a man to drive to the zoo and sank back with a sigh of pleasure. Now we're going to have a very happy afternoon, my dear. He said. Don't you worry about pigs. Arrived at the zoo, Mr Triggs made direct for the monkey house. Patricia, a little puzzled at his choice, followed obediently. Arrived there, he walked round the cages looking keenly at the animals. Finally selecting a little monkey with a blue face, he pointed it out to Patricia. It was just like that, little chap, he said eagerly. That one over there, see him, eating him nut? Yes, I see him, said Patricia. But who was just like him? I'll tell you when we get outside. Now come along. Patricia followed Mr Triggs, puzzled to account for his strange manner and sudden lack of interest in the monkey house. They walked along for some minutes in silence, and then when they came to a quiet spot Mr Triggs turned to Patricia. You see me dear, he said. It was there that I asked her. That you asked who, what, and quiet Patricia, utterly at a loss. You see, we'd been walking out for nearly a year. I was foreman then. I had tickets given me for the zoo one Sunday, so I took her. When we was in the monkey house, there was a couple of little chaps just like that blue-faced little beggar we saw just now. There was a note of affection in Mr Triggs's voice as he spoke to a blue-faced monkey. And one of them had his arm round the other and was making love to her as hard as every could go, continued Mr Triggs. And I said to Emily, just to see how she'd take it. That might be you and me, Emily, and she blushed and looked down, and then of course I knew, and I asked her to marry me. I don't think either of us had cause to regret it, added the old man huskily. God knows I hadn't. She wanted both to laugh and to cry. She could say nothing. Words seemed so hopelessly inadequate. You see, this is our wedding day. That's why I wanted to come, continued Mr Triggs, blinking his eyes in which there was a suspicious moisture. Oh! Thank you so much for bringing me, said Patricia, and she knew as she saw the bright smile with which Mr Triggs looked at her that she'd said the right thing. She'd have liked you, my dear, he added. She had wonderful instinct, and everybody loved her. Yeah, but look at me. He suddenly broke off, spoiling your afternoon, and you looking so tired. Come along. And Mr Triggs trotted off in the direction of the seals, who were intimating clearly that they thought that something must be wrong with the official clock. They were quite ready for their meal. Mr Triggs wondered about the zoo, roving from one group of animals to another, behaving rather like two children who had at last escaped from the bondage of the schoolroom. After tea, they strolled through Regent's Park, watching the squirrels, and talking about the thousand and one things that good comrades have to talk about. Mr Triggs told something of his early struggles, how his wife had always believed in him, and been his helpmate and loyal comrade, how he missed her, and how, when she had died, she would marry again. Sam, she had said, you want a woman to look after you, you're nothing but a great big baby. And she was right, my dear, said Mr Triggs, huskily. She was right as she always was, only she didn't know that there couldn't ever be anyone after her. Slowly and tactfully, Buttershire guided the old man's thoughts away from the sad subject of his wife's death, and soon had him laughing gaily at some stories she'd heard the night Mr Triggs was as easily diverted from sadness to laughter as a child. It was half past seven when they left the park gates, and Patricia, looking suddenly at a wristlet watch, cried out, oh, I shall be late for dinner, I must fly. You're going to dine with me, my dear, announced Mr Triggs. Oh, but I can't, said Patricia, I, I, why can't you? Well, I haven't told Mrs Graskmorton. Who's she? enquired Mr Triggs. Of course, it doesn't matter, how stupid of me, said Patricia, I should love to dine with you, Mr Triggs, if you'll let me. That's all right, said Mr Triggs, heaving a sigh of relief. They walked down Portland Place and Regent Street until they reached the quadrant. We'll have dinner in the grill-room at the quadrant, announced Mr Triggs, with the air of a man who knows his way about town. Oh, no, not there, please, cried Patricia in a panic. Not there, Mr Triggs looked at her, surprised and disappointment in his voice. Why not? Oh, I'd sooner not go there if you don't mind. Couldn't we go somewhere else? For a moment, Mr Triggs did not reply. There's someone there I don't want to meet, said Patricia. Then a moment afterwards she realized her mistake. Mr Triggs looked down at his clothes. I suppose they are a bit out of it for the evening, he remarked in a heard voice. Oh, Mr Triggs, how could you, now I shall insist on dining in the quadrant-grill-room. If you won't come with me, I'll go alone. Not if you don't want to go, my dear, it doesn't matter, though I do like to hear the band. We can go anywhere. No, quadrant or nothing, said Patricia, hoping the bone would be dining out. Are you sure, my dear? said Mr Triggs, hesitating on the threshold. Nothing will change me, announced Patricia, with decision. Now you can see about getting a table while I go and powder my nose. When Patricia rejoined Mr Triggs in the vestibule of the grill-room he was looking very unhappy and downcast. There ain't a table nowhere, he said. Oh, what a shame, Patricia. Whatever shall we do? I don't know, said Mr Triggs helplessly. Are you sure? persisted Patricia. That red-edded fellow over there said there wasn't nothing to be at. I am sorry, Sir Patricia, seeing Triggs' disappointment. I suppose we shall have to go somewhere else after all. Won't you and your friend share my table, Patricia? Patricia turned round as if someone had hit her, her face flaming. Oh, she cried. You. I have a table booked and if you will dine with me you'll be conferring a real favour upon a lonely fellow creature. Bone smiled from Patricia to Mr Triggs, who was looking at him in surprise. Oh, where are my manners? cried Patricia as she introduced the two men. Mr Triggs' eyes bulged at the mention of Bone's title. Now, Mr Triggs, sir Bone, won't you add the weight of your persuasion to mine and persuade Miss Brent that the only thing to do is for you both to dine with me and save me from boredom? Well, it was to have been my treat, said Mr Triggs, not quite sure of his ground. But you can afford to be generous. Can't you share her with me just for this evening? Mr Triggs beamed and turned questioningly to Patricia, who, seeing that if she declined it would be a real disappointment to him, said, Well, I suppose we must under the circumstances. You're not very gracious, Patricia, are you? said Bone comically. Patricia laughed. Well, come along, I'm starving, she said. Many heads were turned to look at the curious trio headed by the obsequious metrodotel as they made their way to his Bone's table. I wonder what Atty would say, whispered Mr Triggs to Patricia. Me dining with a lord and him being a pal of yours too. Patricia smiled. She was wondering what trick fate would play her next. The meal was a gay one. Bone and Mr Triggs immediately became friends and pledged each other in champagne. Mr Triggs told of their visit to the zoo and of the anniversary it celebrated. Then you are a believer in marriage, Mr Triggs, said Bone. A believer in it? I should just think I am, said Mr Triggs. I wish she'd get married, he added, nodding his head in the direction of Patricia. She's going to, said Bone quietly. Mr Triggs set up as if someone had hit him in the small of the back. Going to? he cried. Who's the man? You have just pledged him in moe and chendon, replied Bone quietly. You're going to marry her? Unconsciously Mr Triggs in his surprise, and several people at adjacent tables turned and looked at the trio. Hush, Mr Triggs, said Patricia, feeling her cheeks burn, Bone merely smiled. Well, I am glad, said Mr Triggs heartily, and seizing Bone's hand he shook it cordially. God bless my soul, he added, and you never told me. He turned to reproachful eyes upon Patricia. It, it, she began. You see, it's only just been arranged, said Bone. Patricia flashed him a grateful look. He seemed always to be coming to her rescue. God bless my soul, repeated Mr Triggs. But you'll be happy, both of you, I'll answer for that. Then I may take it that you're on my side, Mr Triggs, said Bone. On your side, queried Mr Triggs, not understanding. Yes, said Bone. You see, Patricia believes in long engagements, whereas I believe in short ones. I wanted to marry me at once, but she will not. She wants to wait until we're both too old to enjoy each other's society, and she's too deaf to hear me say how charming she is. If you love each other, you'll never be too old to enjoy each other's company, said Mr Triggs seriously. Still, I'm with you, he added, and I'll do all I can to persuade her to hurry on the day. Oh, Mr Triggs, cried Patricia reproachfully. You've gone over to the enemy. I think he has merely placed himself on the side of the angels, said Bone. And now, said Mr Triggs, you must both of you dine with me one night to celebrate the event. Oh, law, he exclaimed. What will Eddie say? Then, turning to Bone, he added by way of explanation. Eddie's mid-autor, rather stiff she is, she looks down on Miss Brent, with Secretary. Eddie's got to learn a lot about the world. He added oraculately. My, this'll be a shock to her. I'm afraid I can't, began Patricia. You're not going to say you can't both dine with me? said Mr Triggs, blankly disappointed. I think Patricia will reconsider her decision, said Bone quietly. She wouldn't be so selfish as to deny two men an evening's happiness. She's one of the best, said Mr Triggs, with decision. Mr Triggs, I think you and I have at least one thing in common, said Bone. End of Chapter 11.