 Chapter 1 of Patricia Brent Spinster. She never has anyone to take her out and goes nowhere and yet she can't be more than twenty-seven and really she's not bad looking. It's not looks that attract man. There was a note of finality in the voice. It's something else. The speaker snapped off her words in a tone that marked extreme disapproval. What else? inquired the other voice. Oh, it's, well, it's something not quite nice, replied the other voice darkly. The French called it being trefemme, however she hasn't got it. Well, I feel very sorry for her and her loneliness. I'm sure she would be much happier if she had a nice young man of her own class to take her about. Patricia Brent listened with flaming cheeks. She felt as if someone had struck her. She recognised herself as the object of the speaker's comments. She could not laugh at the words because they were true. She was lonely. She had no man friends to take her about and yet, and yet, twenty-seven, she muttered indignantly. And that was only twenty-four last November. She identified the two speakers as Miss Elizabeth Wengel and Mrs. Moskrup Smythe. Miss Wengel was the great niece of a bishop, and to have a bishop in heaven is a great social asset on earth. This ecclesiastical distinction seemed to give her the right of leadership at the Galvin House residential hotel. Whenever a new border arrived, the unfortunate bishop was disinterred and brandished before his eyes. One facetious young man in the commercial line had dubbed her the body snatcher, and, being inordinately proud of his duty of spree, he had worn a threat bear, and Miss Wengel had got to know of it. The result was the sudden departure of the wit. Miss Wengel had intimated to Mrs. Grask Morton, the proprietress, that if he remained, she would go. Mrs. Grask Morton considered that Miss Wengel gave tone to Galvin House. Miss Wengel was acid of speech and barren of pity. Scandal and the dear bishop were her chief preoccupations. She regularly read the morning post which she bought, and the times which she borrowed. In her attitude towards royalty she was a decubite, and of the aristocracy she knew no wrong. Mrs. Moskrup Smythe was Miss Wengel's toady, but she wrapped her venom in Christian charity, thus making herself the more dangerous of the two. At Galvin House none dare gain say these two in their pronouncements. They were disliked, but more feared than hated. During the Zeppelin's care Mr. Bolton, who was the humorist of Galvin House, had fixed a notice to the drawing room door which read, Zeppelin commanders are requested to confine their attentions to rooms 8 and 18. Rooms 8 and 18 were those occupied by Miss Wengel and Mrs. Moskrup Smythe. There had been a great fuss about this harmless and rather feeble joke. But fortunately for Mr. Bolton he had taken care to pin his jest on the door when no one was looking, and he took the additional precaution of being foremost in his denunciation of the bad taste shown by the person responsible for the jest. Patricia Brent was coming downstairs in response to the dinner-gong when, through the partly open door of the lounge, she overheard the amiable remarks concerning herself. She passed quietly into the dining-room and took her seat at the table in silence, uniquely acknowledging the greetings of her fellow guests. At Galvin House the word guest was insisted upon. Mrs. Grask Bolton, in announcing the advent of a new arrival, reached the pinnacle of refinement. We have another guest coming, she would say, a most interesting man, or a very cultured woman, as the case might be. When the man arrived without his interest, or the woman without her culture, no one was disappointed, for no one had expected anything. The conventions had been observed, and that was all that mattered. Dinner at Galvin House was rather dismal affair. The separate tables heresy, advocated by a progressive-minded guest, had been once sent for all discouraged by Miss Wangle, who announced that if separate tables were introduced, she for one would not stay. I remember the dear Bishop once saying to me, she remarked, My dear, if people can't say what they have to say at a large table, and in the hearing of others, then let it forever remain unsaid. But if someone's dress is ory, or the hair is not on straight, would you announce the fact to the whole table? Patricia had questioned with an innocent that was a little overdone. Miss Wangle had glared, for she were the most obvious, Auburn wig, which failed to convince anyone, and served only to enhance the peller of her sharp features. And consequence of the table arrangements, conversation during mealtimes, was general and dull. Mr Bolton joked, Miss Wangle poured vinegar on oily waters. Mrs Moskrup's smith dripped with the oil of forbearance. Mr Coral ate noisily, Miss Sycambe simped, and Mrs Graskmorton strove to appear a real hostess entertaining real guests, without the damning prefix paying. The remaining guests, they were usually around about twenty-five, looked as they felt they ought to look, and never failed to show a befitting reverence for Miss Wangle's ecclesiastical relic. For it was Miss Wangle who issued the social birth certificates at Galvin House. That evening Patricia was silent. Mr Bolton endeavoured to draw her out, but failed. As a rule she was the first to laugh at his jokes in order to encourage the poor little man, as she expressed it. For a man who is fat and bold and a bachelor and thinks he is a humorist wants all the pity that the world can leverage upon him. Patricia glanced round the table, from Miss Wangle, lean as a winter wolf, to Mrs Moskrup's smith, fair, chubby and faded, and on to Mr Coral, lantern-jawed and ravenous. Were they not all lonely, the left of God? Patricia asked herself, and yet two of these solitary souls had dared to pity her, Patricia Brent. At least she had something dated not possess—youth. The more she thought of the words that had drifted to her through the half-closed door of the lounge, the more humiliating they appeared. Her day had been particularly trying, and she was tired. She was in a mood to see a cyclone in a zephyr, and in a ripple a gigantic wave. She looked about her once more. What a fate to be cast among such people. The table appointments seemed more than usually irritating that evening. The base metal that peeped slightly through the silver of the forks and spoons, the tapering knives, victims of much cleaning, with her yellow handles, the salt cellars, the mustard, browning with three days' age—mustard was replenished on Sundays only. The anemic ferns in artistic pots, every defect seemed emphasised. How she hated it, but most of all the many-shaped and multicoloured napkin rings at Galvin House known as Serviette rings. Serviette was necessary to ensure each guest's personal interest in one particular napkin. Did they ever get mixed? Patricia shut it at the thought. At the end of the week a Serviette had become a sort of gastronomic diary. By Saturday evening, new Serviettes were served out on Sunday at luncheon. The square of grey-white fabric had many things recorded upon it, but above all, like a monarch dominating his subjects, was the ineradicable aroma of Monday's kippa. On this particular evening Galvin House seemed more than ever grey and depressing. Patricia found herself wondering if God had really made all these people in his own image. They seemed so petty, so un-God-like. The way they regarded their food as it was handed to them suggested that they were forever engaged in a comparison of what they paid with what they received. Did God make people in his own image and then leave the rest to them? Was that where free will came in? Lonely. The word seemed to crash in upon her thoughts with explosive force. Someone had used it, whom she did not know or in what relation. It brought her back to earth and Galvin House. Lonely. That was at the root of her depression. She was an object of pity among her fellow-borders. It was intolerable. She understood why girls did things to escape from such surroundings and such fox-pity. Had she been a domestic servant she could have hired a soldier, that is, before the war. Had she been a typist or a shop-girl? Well there were the park and tubes and things where gallant youth approached fair maiden. No, she was just a girl who could not do these things, and in consequence became the pity to the Miss Wengels and the Mrs. Musgrove Smiles of Bayswater. She was quite content to be manless. She did not like man, at least not the sword she had encountered. There were boltons and cordles in plenty. There were the heaven we met before kind, too. The hunters who seemed cheerfully to get out at the wrong station or paid tuppence on a bus for a penny fair in order to pursue some face that had attracted their roving eye. She sighed involuntarily at the ugliness of it all, this cheapening of the things worthy of reference and respect. She looked across at Miss Sickham, whose short skirts and floppy hats had involved her in many unconventional adventures that one glance at her face had corrected as if by magic. Her back view of Miss Sickham was deceptive. Suddenly Patricia made a resolve. Had she paused to think she would have seen their danger, but she was by nature impulsive and the conversation she had overheard had angered and humiliated her. Her resolve synchronized with the arrival of the sweet stage. Turning to Mrs. Grask Morton she remarked casually, I shall not be into dinner to-morrow night, Mrs. Morton. Mrs. Grask Morton always liked her guests to tell her when they were not likely to be into dinner. It saves the servants laying an extra cover, she would explain. As a matter of fact it saved Mrs. Grask Morton preparing for an extra mouth. If Patricia had hurled a bomb into the middle of the dining table she could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her simple remark that she was not dining at Galvenhouse on the morrow. Everybody stopped eating to stare at her. Mrs. Sickham missed her aim with a trifle of apple charlotte and spent the rest of the evening in endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue satin blouse which in Brickson is known as a Paris model. It was Miss Wengel who broke the silence. How interesting, she said, we shall quite miss you, Miss Brent. I suppose you are working late. The whole table waited for Patricia's response with breathless expectancy. No, she replied nonchalantly. I know, said Mrs. Moskrup's smith in her even tones and wagging in a monetary finger at her. You're going to a review or a music hall? Or to sew her wild oats, added Mr. Bolton. Then some devil took possession of Patricia. She would give them something to talk about for the next month. They should have a shock. No, she replied indifferently, attracting to herself the attention of the whole table by her deliberation. No, I'm not going to a review, a music hall or to sew my wild oats. As a matter of fact, she paused. They literally hung upon her words. As a matter of fact, I'm dining with my fiancé. The effect was electrical. Miss Sycam stopped dabbing the front of her Brickson Paris model. Miss Wengel dropped her pin's-nay on the edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. Mr. Cordell, a heavy man who seldom spoke, but enjoyed his food with noisy gusto, actually exclaimed, What? Almost without exception, the others repeated his exclamation. Your fiancé, studded Miss Wengel. But dear Miss Brent, said Mrs. Moskrup's smith, you never told us that you were engaged. Didn't I? inquired Patricia indifferently. And you don't wear a ring, interposed Miss Sycam eagerly. Ha! I hate badges of servitude, remarked Patricia with a laugh. But an engagement ring insinuated Miss Sycam with a self-conscious giggle. One is freer without a ring, replied Patricia. Miss Wengel's jaw dropped. Marriage is our, she began. Made in heaven, I know, broke in Patricia. But you try wearing Turkish slippers in London, Miss Wengel, and you'll soon want to go back to the English boots. It's silly to make things in one place to be worn in another, they never fit. Mrs. Graskmorten cuffed portentously. Really, Miss Brent, she exclaimed. Whenever conversation seemed likely to take an undesirable turn, or she foresaw a storm-threatening, Mrs. Graskmorten's, really, Mr. So-and-so, invariably guided it back into a safe channel. But do they, persisted Patricia? Can you, Mrs. Morton, seriously regard marriage in this country as a success? It's all because marriages are made in heaven without taking into consideration our climatic conditions. Miss Wengel had lost the power of speech. Mrs. Musgrove-Smith was staring at Patricia as if she'd been something strange and unclean upon which her eyes had never hitherto lighted. In the eyes of little Mrs. Hamilton, a delightfully French type of old lady, that was a gleam of amusement. Mrs. Musgrove-Smith was the first to recover the power of speech. Is your fiancée in the army? Yes, replied Patricia, desperately, she had long since thrown over all caution. Oh, tell us his name! giggled Mrs. Sicken. Brown, said Patricia. Is his knapsack number ninety-nine? inquired Mr. Bolton. He doesn't wear one, said Patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself. Oh, he's an officer, then, this from Mrs. Musgrove-Smith. Is he a first or a second lieutenant, inquired Mrs. Crosk-Morton. Major, responded Patricia, laconically. What's he in? Was the next question. West Loamshires. What battalion? inquired Miss Wengel, who had now regained the power of speech. I have a cousin in the fifth. I'm sure I can't remember, said Patricia. I never could remember numbers. Not remember the number of the battalion in which your fiancée is? There was incredulous disapproval in Miss Wengel's voice. No, I'm awfully sorry, replied Patricia. I suppose it's very horrid of me, but I'll go upstairs and look it up if you like. Oh, please don't trouble, said Miss Wengel, icily. I remember the dear Bishop once saying, and I suppose after dinner you go to a theatre, interrupted Mrs. Moskrup-Smith, for the first time in the memory of the oldest guest indifferent to the bishop and what he had said, thought, or done. Oh, no, it's wartime, said Patricia, we shall just dine quietly at the quadrant-grill-room. And meaning-glance passed between Mrs. Moskrup-Smith and Miss Wengel. Why, she had fixed upon the quadrant-grill-room, Patricia could not have said. Now, said Patricia, I must run upstairs and see that my best bib and tucker are in proper condition to be warned before my fiancée. I'll tell him what you say about the ring. Good night, everybody, if we don't meet again. Patricia Brent admonished Patricia to her reflection in the looking-glass as she brushed her hair that night. You are a most unmitigated little liar. You've told those people the wickedest of wicked lies. You've engaged yourself to an unknown major in the British army. You're going to dine with him tomorrow night, and heaven knows what will be the result of it all. A single lie leads to so many. Oh, Patricia, Patricia. She nodded her head admonishingly at the reflection in the glass. You're really a very wicked young woman. Then she burst out laughing. At least, I've given them something to talk about, any old how. By now they've probably come to the conclusion that I'm a most awful rip. Patricia never confessed it to herself, but she was extremely lonely. Instinctively shy of strangers, she endeavored to cover up her self-consciousness by assuming an attitude of nonchalance, and the result was that people saw only the artificiality. She had been brought up in the school of men are beasts, and she took no trouble to disguise her indifference to them. With women she was more popular. If anyone were ill at Galvin House, it was always Patricia Brent who ministered to them, sat and read to them, and cheered them through convalescence back to health. Her acquaintance with men had been almost entirely limited to those she had found in the various boarding-houses glorified in the name of residential hotels at which she had stayed. Five years previously, on the death of her father, a lawyer in a small country town, she had come to London and obtained a post as secretary to a blossoming politician. There she had made herself invaluable, and there she had stayed, performing the same tasks day after day, seldom going out since the war never at all, and living a life calculated to make an asset spinster of a Venus or a Juno. Oh, bother to-morrow, said Patricia as she got into bed that night. It's a long way off, and perhaps something will happen before then. And with that she switched off the light. CHAPTER II The Bonsard Tricks Menage The next morning Patricia awakened with a feeling that something had occurred in her life. For a time she lay pondering as to what it could be. Suddenly memory came with a flash, and she smiled. That night she was dying out. As suddenly as it had come the smile faded from her lips and eyes, and she mentally apostrophised herself as a little idiot for what she had done. Then remembering Miss Wangle's remark and the expression on Miss Moskrup's face, the lines of her mouth hardened, and there was a determined air about the tilt of her chin. She smiled again. Patricia Brent, no, that won't do. She broke off. Then springing out of bed she went over to the mirror, adjusted the dainty boudoir cap upon her head, and bound elaborately to her reflection, said, Patricia Brent, I invite you to dine with me this evening at the quatern grow room. I hope you'll be able to come. How delightful! We shall have a most charming time. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and pondered. Of course she would have to come back radiantly happy. Girls who've been out with our fiancés always return radiantly happy. That will mean two quen dements instead of one. That's another shilling, perhaps two, she murmured. Then she must have a good dinner, or else the quen dements would get into her head. That would mean about seven shillings more. Oh, Patricia, Patricia, she wealed. You've let yourself in for an expense of at least ten shillings. The point being, is a major in the British Army worth an expenditure of ten shillings. We shall—she was interrupted by the maid knocking at the door to inform her that it was her turn for the bathroom. As Patricia walked across the park that morning, on her way to Eaton Square, where the politician lived, who employed her as private secretary whilst he was in the process of rising, she pondered over her last night's announcement. She was convinced that she had acted foolishly, and in a way that would probably involve her in not only expense, but some trouble and inconvenience. At the breakfast table the conversation had been entirely devoted to herself, her fiancée, and the coming dinner together. Ms. Wengle, Mrs. Moskrup-Smith, and Ms. Sickham, supported by Mrs. Grasp Morton, had returned to the charge time after time. Patricia had taken refuge in her habitual breakfast silence, and finding that they could draw nothing from her, her fellow-guests had proceeded to discuss the matter among themselves. It was with a feeling of relief that Patricia rose from the table. There was an east wind blowing, and Patricia had always felt that an east wind made her a materialist. This morning she was depressed. There was in her heart a feeling that fate had not been altogether kind to her. Her childhood had been spent in a small town on the east coast, under the care of her father's sister, who, when Mrs. Brent died, had come to keep house for Mr. John Brent, and take care of his five-year-old daughter. In her aunt Patricia found a woman soured by life. What it was that had soured her, Patricia could never gather. But Aunt Adelaide was forever emphasizing the fact that men were beasts. Later Patricia saw in her aunt a disappointed woman. She could remember as a child examining with great care her aunt's hard features and angular body, and wondering if she had ever been pretty, and if anyone had kissed her because they wanted to, and not because it was expected of them. The lack of sympathy between aunt and niece had driven Patricia more and more to seek her father's companionship. He was a silent man, little given to emotion or demonstration of affection. He loved Patricia, but lacked the faculty of conveying to her the knowledge of his love. As she walked across the park, Patricia came to the conclusion that, for some reason or other, love, or the outward visible signs of love, had been denied her. Warm-hearted, impetuous, spontaneous, she had been chilled by the self-repression of her father and the lack of affection of her aunt. She had been schooled to regard God as the God of punishment rather than the God of love. One of her most terrifying recollections was that of the Sundays spent under the paternal roof. To her father religion counted for nothing, but to her aunt it counted for everything in the world. The hereafter was to be the compensation for renunciation in this world. Ms. Brent's attitude towards prayer was that of one who regards it as a means by which he is able to convey to the almighty what she expects of him in the next world as a reward for what she has done, or rather not done, in this. Patricia had once asked in a childish moment of speculation, that Aunt Adelaide, suppose God doesn't make us happy in the next world, what shall we do then? Oh, yes he will, was her aunt's reply, uttered with such grimness that Patricia, though only six years of age, had been satisfied that not even God would dare to disappoint Aunt Adelaide. Patricia had been a lonely child. She had come to distrust spontaneity, and in consequence became shy and self-conscious, with the inevitable result that other children, the few who were in Aunt Adelaide's opinion fit for her to associate with, made it obvious that she was won by herself. Patricia had fallen back on her father's library, where she had read many books that would have caused her aunt agonies of stormy anguish had she known. Patricia early learned the necessity for dissimulation. She always carefully selected two books, one that she could ostensibly be reading if her aunt happened to come into the library, and the other that she herself wanted to read, and of which she knew her aunt would strongly disapprove. Miss Brent regarded boarding schools as hotbeds of vice, and in consequence Patricia was educated at home, educated in a way that she would never have been at any school, for Miss Brent was thorough in everything she undertook. The one thing for which Patricia had to be grateful to her aunt was a general knowledge and the same methods adopted with her education. But for this she would not have been in the position to accept a secretarieship to a politician. When Patricia was twenty-one her father had died, and she inherited from her mother an annuity of a hundred pounds a year. Her aunt had suggested that she should live together, but Patricia had announced her intention of working, and with the money that she realised from the sale of her father's effects, particularly his library, she came to London and underwent a course of training in shorthand, typewriting, and general secretarial work. This was in March 1914. Before she was ready to undertake a post, the war broke out upon Europe like a cataclysm, and a few months later Patricia had obtained a post as private secretary to Mr. Arthur Bonser and P. Mr. Bonser was the victim of marriage. Destiny had ordained that he should spend his life in gulf and gardening, or in breeding illus rabbits and stingless bees. He was bucolic and passive. Mr. Bonser, however, after a slight altercation with Destiny, had decided that Mr. Bonser was to become a rising politician. Thus it came about that, pushed on from behind by Mrs. Bonser and led by Patricia, whose general knowledge was of the greatest possible assistance to him, Mr. Bonser was in the elaborate process of rising at the time when Patricia determined to have a fiancé. Mr. Bonser was a small, fair-haired man, prematurely bald, and indifferent speaker, with excellent in committee. Instinctively he was gentle and kind. Mrs. Bonser disliked Patricia, and Patricia was indifferent to Mrs. Bonser. Mrs. Bonser, however, recognized that in Patricia her husband had a remarkably good secretary, one whom it would be difficult to replace. Mrs. Bonser's attitude to everyone who is not in a superior position to herself was one of patronage. Patricia she looked upon as an upper servant, although she never dare show it. Patricia, on the other hand, showed very clearly that she had no intention of being treated other than as an equal by Mrs. Bonser, and the result was a sort of armed neutrality. They seldom met. When by chance they encountered each other in the house, Mrs. Bonser would say, Good morning, Miss Brent. I hope you walked across the park. Patricia would reply, Yes, most enjoyable. I invariably walk across the park when I have time. And with a forced smile Mrs. Bonser would say, That is very wise of you. Never did Mrs. Bonser speak to Patricia without inquiring if she had walked across the park. One day Patricia anticipated Mrs. Bonser's inevitable question by announcing, I walked across the park this morning, Mrs. Bonser, and it was most delightful. And Mrs. Bonser had glared at her. But remembering Patricia's value to her husband had made a non-committal reply and passed on. Henceforth Mrs. Bonser dropped all reference to the park. On the first day of Patricia's entry into the Bonser household, Mrs. Bonser had remarked, Of course you'll stay till lunch. And Patricia had thanked her and said she would. But when she found that her luncheon was served on the tray in the library where Mr. Bonser did his work, she had decided that henceforth exercise in the middle of the day was necessary for her, and she lunged out. Mr. Bonser had married beneath him. His father, a land poor squire in the north of England, had impressed upon all his sons that money was essential as a matrimonial asset, and Mr. Bonser, not having sufficient individuality to star for love, had determined to follow the parental decree. How he met Mrs. Tricks, the daughter of the prosperous Stratham-Builder and contractor Samuel Tricks, nobody knew, but his father had congratulated him very cordially about having contrived to marry her. Mrs. Tricks' friends to a woman were of the firm conviction that it was Mrs. Tricks who had married Mr. Bonser. At his so ambitious remarked her father soon after the wedding, that it's almost a relief to get her married. Mr. Bonser was scarcely back from his honeymoon before he was in full possession of the fact that Mrs. Bonser had determined that he should become famous. She had read how helpful many great-men's wives had been in their career, and she determined to be the power behind the indeterminate Arthur Bonser. Poor Mr. Bonser, who desired nothing better than a peaceful life, and had looked forward to a future of ease and prosperity when he married Mrs. Tricks, discovered when too late that he had married not so much Mrs. Tricks as an abstract sense of ambition. Domestic peace was to be purchased only by an attitude of entire submission to Mrs. Bonser's schemes. He was not without brains, but he lacked that impetus necessary to getting on. Mrs. Bonser, who was not lacking in shrewdness, observed this and determined that she herself would be the impetus. Mr. Bonser came to dread mealtimes, that is, mealtimes tether-tether. During these symposiums he was subjected to an elaborate cross-examination as to what he was doing to achieve greatness. Mrs. Bonser insisted upon his being present at every important function to which he could gain admittance, particularly the funerals of the illustrious great. Picked on by her he became an inveterate writer of letters to the newspapers, particularly the Times. Sometimes his letters appeared which caused Mrs. Bonser intense gratification, but editors soon became shy of a man who bombarded them with letters upon every conceivable subject, from the submarine menace to the question of, should women wear last year's frocks? Mr. Tricks had once described his daughter very happily. That is one of them that ain't content with pressing her bell, but she must keep her thumb on the bell-push. That was Mrs. Bonser all over. She lacked restraint, both physical and artistic, and she conceived that if you only make noise enough people will, sooner or later, begin to take notice. Within three years of his marriage Mr. Bonser entered the House of Commons. He had first of all fought in a radical constituency and been badly beaten, but the second time he had, by some curious juggling of chance, been successful in an almost equally strong radical division, much to the delight of Mrs. Bonser. The success had been largely due to her idea of flooding the constituency with pretty girl canvases, but she had been very careful to keep a watchful eye on Mr. Bonser. One of her reasons for engaging Patricia, for really Mrs. Bonser was responsible for the engagement, had been that she had decided that Patricia was indifferent to men, and she decided that Mr. Bonser might safely be trusted with Patricia Brent for long periods of secretarial communion. Mr. Bonser, although not lacking in susceptibility, was entirely devoid of that courage which subjugates the feminine heart. Once he had permitted his hand to rest upon Patricia's, but he never forgot the look she gave him, and, for weeks after, he felt a most awful dog and wondered if Patricia would tell Mrs. Bonser. When she married Mrs. Bonser saw that it would be necessary to drop her family, that is, as far as practicable. It could not be done entirely, because her father was responsible for the allowance which made it possible for the Bonsers to live in Eaton Square. The old man was not lacking in shrewdness, and he had no intention of being thrown overboard by his ambitious daughter. It occasionally happened that Mr. Triggs would descend upon the Bonser household, and, although Mrs. Bonser did her best to suppress him, that is, without in any way showing she was ashamed of her parent, he managed to make Patricia's acquaintance, and, from that time, made a practice of inquiring for and having a chat with her. Mrs. Bonser was grateful to Providence for having removed her mother previous to her marriage. Mrs. Triggs had been a homely soul, with a marked inclination to be friendly. She overflowed with good humour, and was a woman who would always talk in an omnibus, or join a wedding-crowed and compare notes with those about her. She addressed Mr. Triggs as Pa, which caused her daughter to a mental anguish of which Mrs. Triggs was entirely unaware. It was not until Mrs. Triggs was almost out of routines that her mother was persuaded to seize calling her girly. In Mrs. Bonser the reforming spirit was deeply ingrained, but she had long since dispaired of being able to influence her father's taste in dress. She groaned in spirit each time she saw him, for his sartorial ideas were not those of Mayfair. He leaned towards cheques, rather loud cheques trousers that were tight about the calf, and a coat that was a sporting conception of the morning coat with a large flap pocket on either side. He invariably wore a red tie and an enormous watch chain across his prosperous-looking figure. His head was a high felt, benefit that seemed to have set out in life with the ambition of being a top hat, but losing heart had compromised. If Mrs. Bonser dreaded her father's visits, Patricia welcomed them. She was genuinely fond of the old man. Mr. Triggs radiated happiness from the top of a shiny bald head with its fringe of sandy gray hair to his square-toed boots that invariably emitted little squeaks of joy. He wore a fringe of whiskers round his chubby face, otherwise he was clean-shaven, holding that beards were messy things. He had what Patricia called crinkly eyes, that is to say each time he smiled there seemed to radiate from them hundreds of little lines. He always addressed Patricia as Medea, and not infrequently brought her a box of chocolates to the scandal of Mrs. Bonser who had once expostulated with him that that was not the way to treat her husband's secretary. Tad-tad-daddy had been Mr. Triggs' response. She's a fine girl. If I was a bit younger I shouldn't be surprised if there was a second Mrs. Triggs. Father! Mrs. Bonser had expostulated in horror. Remember that she's Arthur's secretary. Mr. Triggs had almost choked with laughter. Murph invariably seemed to interfere with his respiration and ended in violent and wheezy cuffings and gaspings. Had Mrs. Bonser known that he repeated the conversation to Patricia she would have been mortified almost to the point of discharging her husband's secretary. You see, Medea, Mr. Triggs had once said to Patricia, Etty's so busy bothering about ages that she's got time for nothing else. She ain't exactly proud of her old father. He'd added shrewdly. But she finds his brass a bit useful. Mr. Triggs was an unknown delusion as to his daughter's attitude towards him. One day he had asked Patricia rather suddenly, Why don't you get married, Medea? Patricia had started and looked up at him quickly. Married? Me, Mr. Triggs? Oh, I suppose for one thing nobody wants me, and for another I'm not in love. Mr. Triggs had pondered a little over this. That's right, Medea, he said at length. Never you marry, except you feel you can't help it. Then you'll know it's the right one. Don't you marry a chap because he's got a lot of brass. You marry for the same reason that me and my Mrs. married, because we felt we couldn't do without each other. And the old man's voice grew husky. You wouldn't believe it, Medea, how I miss her. Though she's been dead eight years next May. Patricia had been deeply touched and, not knowing what to say, What stretched out her hand to the old man, who took and held it for a moment in his. As she drew her hand away, she felt a tear splash upon it, and it was not her own. Ever hear that song, my old Dutch? He asked after a lengthy silence. Patricia nodded. I used to sing it to her. God bless my soul, what an old fool I'm getting, talking to you in this way. Now I must be getting off, although what would he say if she knew? But Mrs. Bonser did not know. CHAPTER III THE ADVENTURE AT THE QUADRANT GROWROOM That evening, as Patricia looked in at the lounge on the way to her room, she felt it unusually crowded. On a normal day her appearance would scarcely have been noticed, but this evening it was the signal for a sudden cessation in the buzz of conversation, and all eyes were upon her. For a moment she stood in the doorway, and then, with a nod and a smile, she turned and proceeded upstairs, conscious of the whispering that broke out as soon as her back was turned. As she stood before the mirror, wondering what she should wear for the night's adventure, she recalled a remark of Miss Wangle's that no really nice-minded woman ever dressed in black and white unless she had some ulterior motive. Upon the subject of sex attraction, Miss Wangle posed as an authority, and hinted darkly at things that thrilled Miss Sycambe to ecstatic giggles, and Mrs. Moskrup's smith to pianissimo moans of anguish that such things could be. With great deliberation, Patricia selected a black charmeuse costume that Miss Wangle had already confided to the whole of Galvenhouse was at least two-and-a-half inches too short, but as Patricia had explained to Miss Hamilton, if you possess exquisitely fitting patent boots that come high up the leg, it's a sin for the skirt to be too long. She selected a black velvet hat with a large white water lily on the upper brim. "'You look bad enough for a vicar's daughter,' she said, surveying herself in the glass as she fastened a bunch of rat carnations in her belt. White at the wrists and on the head? Yes, it looks most improper. I wonder what the major man will think.' Swift movements, deaf touches, earnest scrutiny followed one another. Patricia was an artist in dress. Finally, when her gold wristlet watch had been fastened over a white glove, she subjected herself to a final and exhaustive examination. "'Now, Patricia, it had become with her a habit to address her reflection in the mirror. Shall we carry an umbrella, or shall we not?' For a few moments she regarded herself quizzically, then finally announced, "'No, we will not. An umbrella suggests a bus or the tube, and when a girl goes out with a major in the British army, she goes in a taxi. No, we will not carry an umbrella.' She still lingered in front of the mirror, looking at herself with obvious approval. "'Yes, Patricia, you're looking quite nice. Your eyes are violater, your hair more sensitive, and your lips redder than usual. And yes, your face generally looks happier.' When she ended the lounge, it was twenty minutes to eight, and although dinner was at seven-thirty, the room was full. Everybody stared at her, as with flushed cheeks she walked to the centre of the room. Then suddenly turning to Miss Wangle, she said, "'Do you think I shall do, Miss Wangle, or do I look too wicked for a major?' Miss Wangle merely stared. Mrs. Hamilton smiled, and Mrs. Moskrup-Smith looked sympathetically at Miss Wangle. Mr. Bolton laughed. "'I wish I was a major, Miss Brent,' he remarked, at which Patricia turned to him and made an elaborate curtsy. "'That girl will come to a bad end,' remarked Miss Wangle with conviction to Miss Moskrup-Smith, as with a smile over her shoulder, Patricia made a dramatic exit. She had noticed, however, that Miss Wangle and Mrs. Moskrup-Smith were in hats and jackets. They too were apparently going out, although she had not heard them tell Mrs. Grask more than so. Mr. Bolton also had his hat in his hand. During that day Patricia had thought out very carefully the part she had set herself to play. If she were going to meet her fiancé back from the front, she must appear radiantly happy, Vidae conventional opinion, but she had admonished her reflection in the mirror. You mustn't overdo it. Women, especially Tabis, are very acute. It had been Patricia's intention to go by bus, but at the entrance of the lounge she saw Gustave, who ingratiatingly inquired, "'Taxi, Miss?' With a smile she nodded her head, and Gustave disappeared. There goes another two shillings. Oh, bother, Major Brown. Soldiers are costly luxuries,' she muttered under her breath. A moment after Gustave reappeared with the intimation that the taxi was at the door. A group of her fellow-guests gathered in the hall to see her off. Patricia thought their attitude more appropriate to a wedding than the fact that one of their fellow-boarders was going out to dinner. It is clear, she thought, that Patricia Brent, mancatchel, is a much more important person than is Patricia Brent in veteran spinster. She noticed that there was a second taxi at the door, and while her own driver was winding up his machine, which took some little time, the other taxi got off in front. She had seen get into it Miss Wangle, Miss Moskrup-Smith, and Mr Bolton. As the taxi spread eastward, Patricia began to speculate as to what she really intended doing. She had no appointment. She was in a taxi which would cost her two shillings at least, and she had given the address of the quadrant-grill room. She was still considering what she should do when the taxi drew up. Fate and the taxi-driver had decided the matter between them, and Patricia determined to go through with it, and disappoint neither. Having paid the man and tipped him handsomely, she descended the stairs to the grill-room. She had no idea of what it cost to dine at the quadrant, but remembered with a comfortable feeling that she had some two pounds upon her. With moderation, she decided it might be possible to get a meal for that sum without attracting the adverse criticism of the staff. It had not struck her that it might appear strange for a girl to dine alone at such a restaurant as the quadrant and that she was laying herself open to criticism. She was too excited at this new adventure into which she had been precipitated for careful reasoning. As she descended the stairs, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She started. Surely that could not be Patricia Brent, secretary to a rising politician, that stylish-looking girl in black with a large bunch of carnations, that red-haired creature with sparkling eyes and a color that seemed to have caught the reflection of the carnations in her belt. She entered the lounge at the foot of the stairs with increased confidence, and she was conscious that several men turned to look at her with interest. Then suddenly the bottom fell out of her world. There, standing in the vestibule, were Miss Wangle, Mrs. Moskrup's smith, and Mr. Bolton. In a flash she saw it all. They had come to spy upon her. They would find her out, and the whole humiliating story would probably have to be told. Thoughts seemed to spur through her mind. What was she to do? It was too late to retreat. Miss Wangle had already fixed her with a stony stare through her long nets, which she carried only on special occasions. Patricia was conscious of bowing and smiling sweetly. Some subconscious power seemed to take possession of her. Still wondering what she should do, she found herself walking head-in-the-air and perfectly composed in the direction of the grill-room. She was conscious of being followed by Miss Wangle and her party. As Patricia rounded the glass screen, a superintendent came up and inquired if she had a table. She heard a voice that seemed like and yet unlike her own answer. Yes, thank you. And she passed on, looking from right to left, as if in search of someone, unconscious of the many glances cast in her direction. When about half way up the long room, just past the bandstand, the terrible thought came to her of a possible humiliating retreat. What was she to do? Why was she there? What were her plans? She looked about her, hoping that she did not appear so frightened as she felt. She was conscious of the gaze of a man seated at a table a few yards off. He was fair and in khaki. That was all she knew. Yes, he was looking at her intently. No, that table won't do. It's too near to the band. It was Miss Wangle's voice behind her. Without a moment's hesitation, her subconscious self once more took possession of Patricia, and she marched straight up to the fair-haired man in khaki, and in a voice loud enough for Miss Wangle and her party to hear, cried, Hello, so here you are. I thought I should never find you. Then as he rose, she murmured under her breath, Please play up to me. I'm in an awful hole. I'll explain presently. Without a moment's hesitation, the man replied, You're very late. I waited for you a long time outside. Then I gave you up. With a look of gratitude and a sigh of content, Patricia sank down into the chair, a waiter at place for her. With her being no chair, she would have fallen to the floor, her legs refusing further to support her body. She was trembling all over. Miss Wangle had selected the next table. Patricia was conscious of hoping that somewhere in the next world Miss Wangle's sufferings would transcend those of Davies as a hundred to one. As she was pulling off her gloves, her companion held a low-toned colloquy with the waiter. She stole a glance at him. What must he be thinking? How had he classified her? Her heart was pounding against her ribs, as if determined to burst through. Suddenly, she remembered that the others were watching, and, leaning upon the table, she said, Please pretend to be very pleased to see me. We must talk a lot. You know, you know. Then she turned aside in confusion. But with an effort, she said, You are supposed to be my fiancée, and you've just come back from France, and oh, what are you thinking of me? Please. She broke off. Very gravely, and with smiling eyes, he replied, I quite understand. Please don't worry. Something has happened, and if I can do anything to help, you have only to tell me. My name is Bone, and I'm just back from France. Are you a major? And quiet, Patricia. To whom stars and crowns meant nothing? I'm afraid I'm a lieutenant colonel, he replied, on the staff. Oh, what a pity, said Patricia. I said you are a major. Couldn't you say I've been promoted? Patricia clapped her hands. Oh, how splendid! Of course. You see, I said that you were a major brown. I can easily tell him that they misunderstood, and that it was major Bone. They're such awful cats, and if they found out, I should have to leave. You see, that's some of them at the next table there. That's Miss Wengel with the lourniettes, and the other woman is Mrs. Moskrup Smythe, who is her echo, and the man is Mr. Bolson. He's nothing in particular. I see, said Bone. And, of course, you've got to pretend to be most awfully glad to see me. You see, we haven't met for a long time, and we're engaged. I quite understand, was the reply. Then suddenly Patricia caught his eye and saw the smile in it. Oh, how dreadful, she cried. Of course, you don't know anything about it. I'm talking like a schoolgirl. You see, my name's Patricia, Patricia Brent. And then she plunged into the whole story, telling him frankly of her escapade. He was strangely easy to talk to. And she concluded, what do you think of me? I think I'd sooner not tell you just now, he smiled. Is it as bad as that? She inquired. Then suddenly the smile faded from his face, and he lent across to her, saying, Miss Brent. I'm afraid you must call me Patricia. She interrupted with a comical look, in case they're over here. It seems rather sudden, doesn't it? Had I shall have to call you? Peter, he said. He had nice eyes, Patricia decided. Um, uh, Peter, she made a dash at the name. Bone sat back in his chair and laughed. Miss Wengle fixed upon him a stair through her lognettes, not an unfavorable stair. She was greatly impressed by his rank and red taps. After that the eyes seemed broken, and Patricia and her fiancee chatted merrily together, greatly impressing Patricia's fellow-boarders. Bone was a good talker and a sympathetic listener, and, above all, his attitude had in it that deference which put Patricia entirely at her ease. She told him all there was to tell about herself, and he, in return, explained that he came of an army family, and had been sent out to France soon after months. He was then a captain in the Omenry. He was wounded, promoted, and later received the DSO and MC. He had now been brought back to England and attached to the General's staff. Now I think you know all that is necessary to know about your fiancee. He had concluded. Patricia laughed. Oh, by the way, she said, you've never given me an engagement ring. Please don't forget that. They asked me where my ring was, and I told them I didn't care about rings as they were batches of servitude. You see, it is quite possible that Miss Wango will come over to us presently. She's just that sort, and she might ask awkward questions. That is why I am telling you all about myself. I'll remember, saboon. I'm glad you're a DSO, though, she went on half to herself. That's sure to interest them, and it's nice to think you're more than a major. Miss Wango and Mrs. Moskrup-Smith are most worldly minded. Of course, it would have been nicer had you been a field marshal, but I suppose you couldn't be promoted from a major to a field marshal in the course of a few days, could you? Well, it's not usual, he confessed. When the meal was over, Bowen looked at his watch. I'm afraid it's too late for a show. It's a quarter to ten. A quarter to ten? cried Patricia. How the time has flown. I shall have to be going home. He noticed preparations for a move at the Wango table. Oh, please don't hurry. Let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time. Do you think I ought? inquired Patricia critically, her head on one side. Well, replied Bowen, I think that you might safely do so, as we are engaged. And that settled it. They went upstairs, and it was a quarter to eleven before Patricia finally decided that she must make a move. Do you know, she said, as she rose, I'm afraid I've enjoyed this most awfully, but oh, till tomorrow morning. Shall you be tired? inquired. Tired, she queried, I shall be hot with shame. I shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. I shall give myself a most awful time. For days I shall live in torture. You see, I'm excited now, and you seem so nice, and you've been so awfully kind. But when I get alone, then I shall start wondering what was in your mind, what you've been thinking of me, and it will be awful. No, I'll come with you while you get your head. I dare not be left alone. It might come on, then, and I should probably bolt. Of course, I shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because I'm your fiancé, he smiled. Uh-huh, she nodded. Both were silent, as they sped along westward in the taxi, neither seeming to wish to break the spell. Thinking, inquired Bowen at length, as they passed the marble arch. I was thinking how perfectly sweet you've been, replied Patricia gravely. You've understood everything, and—and—you see, I was so much at your mercy. Shall I tell you what I was thinking? Please do. It sounds horribly sentimental. Never mind, he replied. Well, I was thinking that your mother would like to know that he had done what you have done to-night. And now, please, tell me how much my dinner was. Your dinner? Yes, please! She emphasised the please. You insist? And then, Patricia, did a strange thing. She placed her hand upon Bowen's, and pressed it. Please go on understanding, she said, and he told her how much the dinner was, and took the money from her. May I pay for the taxi? He inquired comically. For a moment she paused, and then replied, Yes, I think you may do that, and now here we are, as the taxi drew up. And thank you very much indeed, and good-bye. They were standing on the pavement outside Galvin House. Good-bye, he inquired. Do you really mean it? Yes, please! Again she emphasised the please. Patricia, he said in a serious tone, as the door flew open and Gustave appeared silhouetted against the light. Don't you think that sometimes we ought to think of the other fellow? I shall always think of the other fellow. And with the pressure of the hand, Patricia ran up the steps, and disappeared into the hall, the door closing behind her. Bowen turned slowly, and re-entered the taxi. Where to, sir? inquired the man. Ah, to hell! burst out Bowen savagely. Yes, sir, but what about my petrol? Your petrol? Oh, I see. Bowen laughed. Well, the quadrant then. In the hall, Patricia hesitated. Should she go into the lounge, where she was sure Galvin House would be gathered in full force? Or should she go straight to bed? Miss Wengel decided the matter by appearing at the door of the lounge. Oh, here you are, Miss Brent. We thought you had eloped. Wasn't it strange we should see you to-night? Listed Mrs. Moskrup-Smith, who had followed Miss Wengel. Patricia surveyed Mrs. Moskrup-Smith with calculating calmness. If two people go to the same room at the same time on the same evening, it would be strange if they did not see each other. Don't you think so, Miss Wengel? Did you say you were going there, Listed Mrs. Moskrup-Smith, coming to Miss Wengel's assistance? We forgot. Oh, do come in, Miss Brent! It was Mrs. Grask Morton who spoke. Patricia entered the lounge, and found, as she had dismayed it, the whole establishment collected. Not one was missing. Even Gustave flooded about from place to place, showing an unwanted desire to tidy up. Patricia was conscious that her advent had interrupted a conversation of absorbing interest, furthermore that she herself had been the subject of that conversation. Miss Wengel has been telling us all about your fiancée. It was Miss Sikkim who spoke. Fancy, you're saying you was a major when is the staff Lieutenant Colonel? Oh, replied Patricia nonchalantly, as she pulled off her gloves. They've been altering him. They always do that in the army. You get engaged to a captain, and you find you have to marry a general. It's so stupid. It's like buying a kitten and getting a kangaroo pup sent home. But aren't you pleased? inquired Mrs. Grask Morton at a loss to understand Patricia's mood. No, snapped Patricia, who was already feeling the reaction. It's like being engaged to a chameleon or a quick-change artist. They've made him an RSO as well. After her lashes, Patricia saw, with keen appreciation, the quick glances that were exchanged. You mean a DSO, Distinguished Service Order, explained Mr. Morton. An RSO is, um, uh, something you put on letters. Is it? inquired Patricia innocently. I'm so stupid at remembering such things. He was wearing the ribbon of the military cross, too, bubbled Mrs. Moskrup's smith. Was he? Patricia was afraid of overdoing the pose of innocence she had adopted. What a nuisance! A nuisance? There were surprised impatience in Miss Wangle's voice. Patricia turned to her sweetly. Yes, Miss Wangle, it gives me such a lot to remember. Now let me see. She proceeded to tick off each word upon her fingers. He's a Lieutenant Colonel Peter Bowen, DSO, MC. Is that right? Bowen almost shrieked Miss Wangle. You said Brown. Did I? I'm awfully sorry. My memory's getting worse than ever. Then a wave of Miss Chief took possession of her. Do you know, when I went up to him tonight, I hadn't the remotest idea of what his Christian name was. Then what on earth do you call him, then? cried Mrs. Crosk Morton. Call him, queried Patricia, as she rose and gathered up her gloves. Oh, indifferently. I generally call him old thing. And with that, she left the lounge, conscious that she had scored a tactical victory. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 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 4. The Madness of Lord Peter Bone. When Patricia awakened the next morning, it was the feeling that she'd suffered some terrible disappointment. As a child, she remembered experiencing the same sensation on the morning after some tragedy that had resulted in her crying herself to sleep. She opened her eyes and was conscious that her lashes were wet with tears. Suddenly the memory of the previous night's adventure came back to her with a rush, and with an angry dab on the bedclothes, she wiped her eyes, just as the maid entered with a cup of early morning tea she had specially ordered. With inspiration, she decided to breakfast in bed. She could not face a whole table of wide-eyed interrogation. Oh, the cats! She muttered under her breath. I hate women! Later, she slipped out of the house, unobserved, with what she described to herself as a morning after the party feeling. She was puzzled to account for the tears. What had she been dreaming of to make her cry? Every time the thought of her adventure presented itself, she put it resolutely aside. She was angry with herself, angry with the world, angry with one Lieutenant Colonel Peter Bone. Why, she could not have explained. Oh, bother! She exclaimed, as she made a fourth correction in the same letter. Going out is evidently not good for you, Patricia. She spent the day alternately in wondering what Bone was thinking of her, and deciding that he was not thinking of her at all. Finally, with a feeling of hot shame, she remembered to what thought she had let herself open. Her one consolation was that she would never see him again. Then, womanlike, she wondered whether he would make an effort to see her. Would he be content with his dismissal? For the first time during their association, the rising politician was conscious that his secretary was anxious to get off sharp to time. At five minutes to five, she resolutely put aside her notebook and banged the cover onto her typewriter. Mr. Bonser looked up at this unwanted energy and punctuality on Patricia's part, and, with a tactful interest in the affairs of others, that he was endeavouring to cultivate for political purposes. He inquired, Going out? No, snapped Patricia. I'm going home. Mr. Bonser raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He was a mild-mannered man who had learned the value of silence when phased by certain phases of feminine psychological phenomena. He therefore made no comment, but he watched his secretary curiously as she swiftly left the room. Jabbing the pins into her head and throwing herself into her coat, Patricia was walking down the steps of the rising politician's house in Eaton Square as the clock struck five. She walked quickly in the direction of Sloan Square railway station. Suddenly, she slackened her speed. Why was she hurrying home? She fell herself blushing hotly and became furiously angry as if discovered in some humiliating act. Then with one of those odd emotional changes characteristic of her, she smiled. Patricia Brent, she murmured, I think a little walk won't do you any harm. And she strolled slowly up Sloan Street and across the park to Bayswater. Her hand trembled as she put the key in the door and opened it. She looked swiftly in the direction of the letter rack, but her eyes were arrested by two boxes, one very large and obviously from a florist. A strange excitement seized her. Were they? At that moment Miss Sickham came out of the lounge, simpering. Oh, Miss Brent, have you seen your beautiful presence? Then Patricia knew, and she became angry with herself on finding how extremely happy she was. Glancing almost indifferently at the labels, she proceeded to walk upstairs. Miss Sickham looked at her in amazement. But aren't you going to open them? She blurted out. Oh, presently, said Patricia in an offhand way. I had no idea it was so late. And she ran upstairs, leaving Miss Sickham gazing after her in petrified astonishment. That evening Patricia took more than usual pains with her toilette. Had she paused to ask herself why, she would have been angry. When she came downstairs, the other boarders were seated at the table, all expectantly awaiting her entrance. On the table, in the front of her chair, were the two boxes. I had your presence brought in here, Miss Brent. explained Mrs. Graskmorton. Oh, I'd forgotten all about them, said Patricia indifferently. I suppose I'd better open them, which she proceeded to do. The smaller box contained chocolate, as Mr. Bolton put it, evidently bought by the hundred-weight. The larger of the boxes was filled with an enormous spray bunch of white and red carnations, tied with green silk ribbon, and on the top of each box was a card, with love from Peter. Patricia's cheeks burned. She was angry, she told herself, yet there was a singing in her heart, and a light in her eyes that oddly belighted her. He had not forgotten. He had dared to disobey her injunction. Fool, she told herself, good-bye, clearly forbade the sending of flowers and chocolates. She was unconscious that every eye was upon her, and a smile with which she regarded now the flowers, now the chocolates, was self-revolatory. Mrs. Moskrup's smith glanced significantly at Miss Wangle, who, however, was too occupied in watching Patricia with hawk-like intentness to be conscious of anything but the quarry. Suddenly, Patricia remembered, and her face changed. The flowers faded. The chocolates lost their sweetness, and the smile vanished. The parted lips set in a firm but mobile line. But a before-been-attribute now became in her eyes an insult. Men sent chocolates and flowers to those women. If he respected her, he would have done as she commanded him, instead of which it sent her presence. Oh! It was intolerable! If I sent flowers and chocolates to a lady friend, said Mr. Bolton, I should expect her to look happier than you do, Miss Brent. With an effort Patricia gathered herself together, and with a forced smile replied, Ah! Mr. Bolton! But you are different! Which seemed to please Mr. Bolton mightily. She was conscious that everyone was looking at her in surprise not a mixed with disapproval. She was aware that her attitude was not the conventional pose of the happily engaged girl. The situation was strange. Even Mr. Cordell was bestowing upon her a portion of his attention. It is true that he was eating curry with a spoon which required less accuracy than something necessitating a knife and fork. Still at mealtimes it was unusual of him to be conscious even of the existence of his fellow boarders. It was Gustave who relieved the situation by handing to Patricia a telegram on the little tray where the silver had long since given up the unequal struggle with a base metal beneath. Patricia with assumed indifference laid it beside her plate. Zaboy is waiting, Miss, insinuated Gustave. Patricia tore open the envelope and read, May I come and see you this evening? Don't say no, Peter. Patricia was conscious of her flushed face and she felt irritated at her own weakness. With a murmured apology to Mrs. Morton she rose from the table and went into the lounge where she wrote the reply. Regret impossible, remember your promise. Then she paused. She did not want to sign her full name. She could not sign her Christian name, she decided. So she compromised by using initials only, P.B. She took the telegram to the door herself, knowing that otherwise poor Gustave's life would be a misery at the hands of Miss Wangle, Mrs. Moskrup-Smith and the others. Why had she given the boys sixpence? She asked herself as she slowly returned to the dining-room. Telegraph boys were paid and it was ridiculous to tip them, especially when they brought undesirable messages. Was the message undesirable? Someone within seemed to question. Of course it was, and she was very angry with Bone for not doing as she had commanded When Patricia returned to the table and proceeded with the meal she was conscious of the atmosphere of expectancy around her. Everybody wanted to know what was in the telegram. At last Miss Wangle inquired. No bad news, I hope, Miss Brent. Patricia looked up and fixed Miss Wangle with a deliberate stare which she meant to be rude. None, Miss Wangle, thank you, she replied coldly. The dinner proceeded until the sweet was being served when Gustave approached her once more. You have ranted, Miss, on the telephone, please, he said. Patricia was conscious once more of crimsoning as she turned to Gustave. Please say that I am engaged, she said. Gustave left the dining-room. Everybody watched the door in a fever of expectancy. Two minutes later Gustave reappeared and, walking softly up to Patricia's chair, whispered in a voice that could be clearly heard by everyone. It is Colonel Bown, Miss. He wished to speak to you. Tell him I'm at dinner, replied Patricia calmly. She could literally hear the gasp that went round the table. But Miss Brent began Miss Grask Morton. Patricia turned and looked straight into Miss Grask Morton's eyes interrogatingly. Gustave hesitated. Miss Grask Morton collapsed. Miss Wangle and Miss Moskrup-Smith exchanged meaning glances. Little Miss Hamilton looked concerned, almost a little sad. Patricia turned to Gustave. You heard, Gustave. Yes, Miss, replied Gustave, and, turning reluctantly towards the door, he disappeared. There was something in Patricia's demeanour that made it clear she would resent any comment on her action, and the meal continued in silence. Mr. Bolton made some feeble endeavors to lighten the atmosphere, but he was not successful. In the lounge a quarter of an hour later Gustave once more approached Patricia, this time with a note. The boy is waiting, Miss, he announced. Patricia tore open the envelope and read. Dear Patricia, won't you let me see you? Please remember that even the underdog has his rights. Yours ever, Peter. There is no answer, Gustave, said Patricia, and Gustave left the room disconsoledly. Half an hour later Gustave returned once more. On his tray, with three telegrams, Patricia looked about her wildly. The man suddenly gone mad, she asked herself. Tell the boy not to wait, Gustave, she said. There is three boys, Miss. The atmosphere was electrical. Mr. Bolton laughed, then stopped suddenly. Miss Sikkim simpered. Patricia turned to Gustave with a calmness that was not reflected in her cheeks. Tell the three boys not to wait, Gustave. Yes, Miss. Gustave slowly walked to the door. It was clear that he could not reconcile with his standard of ethics the allowing of three telegrams to remain unopened, and to dismiss three boys without knowing whether or no there really were replies. The same feeling was reflected in the faces of Patricia's fellow-boarders. Miss Brent must be losing a lot of relatives, or coming into a lot of fortunes, remarked Mr. Bolton to Miss Hamilton. Patricia preserved an outward calm. She was far from feeling. She rose and went up to her room to discover from the three orange envelopes what was the latest phase of Colonel Bourne's madness. Seated on her bed, she opened the telegrams. The first read, Will you go motoring with me on Sunday, Peter? No, she would do nothing of the kind. The second said, If I have done anything to offend you, please tell me and forgive me, Peter. Of course he had done nothing, and it was all very absurd. Why was he behaving like a schoolboy? The third was longer. It ran. I so enjoyed last night. It was the most delightful evening I have spent for many a day. Please do not be too hard upon me, Peter. This was a tactical error. It brought back to Patricia the whole incident. It was utter folly to have placed herself in such an impossible position. Obviously Bowen knew nothing of women, or he would not have made such a blunder as the reminder of what took place on the previous night, unless—unless? She hardly dared breathe the thought to herself. What if he thought her different from what she actually was? Could he confuse her with those? It was impossible. She was angry, angry with him, angry with herself, angry with the quadrant-grill-room. But angry as of all with Galvin House, which had precipitated her into this adventure. Why did silly women expect every girl to marry? Why was it assumed, because a woman did not marry, that no one wanted to marry her? Patricia regarded herself in the looking-glass. Was she really the sort of girl who might be taken for an inveterate old mate? Her hands and feet were small. Her ankles well-shaped. Her figure had been praised, even by women. Her hair was a natural red-orban. Her features regular. Her mouth mobile, well-shaped with very red lips. Her eyes a violet-blue with long dark lashes and eyebrows. You're not so bad, Patricia Brent, she remarked, as she turned from the glass. But you will probably be a secretary to the end of your days, drink cold, weak tea, keep a cat, and get hard and angular, skinny most likely. You're just the sort that runs the skin and bone. She was interrupted in her meditations by a knock at the door. Come in, she called. The door was softly opened, and Mrs. Hamilton entered. May I come in, dear? She inquired in an apologetic voice, as she stood on the threshold. Come in, cried Patricia. Why, of course you may, you dear. You can do anything you like with me. Mrs. Hamilton was small and white and fragile, with a ray of sunlight in her soul. She invariably dressed in grey, or blue-grey. Everything she wore seemed to be as soft as her own expression. I—I came up. I—I hope it is not bad news. I don't want to meddle in your affairs, my dear, but I'm concerned. If there's anything I can do, you will tell me, won't you? You won't think me inquisitive, will you? Why? You dear, silly little thing. Of course I don't. Still, it's just like your sweet self to come up and inquire. It's only that ridiculous colonel bone who is showering telegrams on me in this way in order, I suppose, to benefit the revenue. I think he's gone mad. Perhaps it's shell-shock, poor thing, though will most likely be another shower before we go to bed. Now we will go downstairs and stop those old pussies talking. My dear, expostulated Mrs. Hamilton. Patricia laughed. Yes, aren't I getting acid and spinsterish? As they walked downstairs, Mrs. Hamilton said, I'm so anxious to see him, my dear. Miss Wengle says he's so distinguished-looking. Who? inquired Patricia, with mock innocence. Colonel Bone, dear. Oh, yes, he's quite a decent-looking old thing, and he's given Galvin House something to talk about, hasn't he? In the lounge, Patricia soon became the centre of a group anxious for information. But no one was daring enough to put direct questions to her. Mrs. Graskmorten vented a suggestion that Colonel Bone might be coming to dine with Patricia, and that she hoped Miss Brent would let her know in good time so that she might make special preparations. Patricia replied without enthusiasm. None was better aware than she that had her fiance turned out to be a private. Mrs. Graskmorten would have been the last even to suggest that he should dine at Galvin House. There would have been no question of special preparations. About ten o'clock Gustav entered and approached Patricia. She groaned in spirit. You are ranted on the telephone, Miss. Patricia thought she detected a note of reproach in his voice, as if he were conscious that a fellow male was being badly treated. Will you say that I'm engaged? replied Patricia. It's Colonel Bone, Miss. For a moment Patricia hesitated. She was conscious that Galvin House was against her to a woman. After all there were limits beyond which it would be unwise to go. Galvin House had its standards which had already been sorely tried. Patricia felt rather than heard the whispered criticism passing between Miss Wangle and Mrs. Moskrup-Smith. Rising slowly with an air of reconciled martyrdom, Patricia went to the telephone at the end of the hall, followed by the smiling Gustav, who, like the rest of Galvin House, had found his sense of decorum sorely outraged by Patricia's conduct. Hello! cried Patricia into the mouthpiece of the telephone, her heart thumping ridiculously. Gustav walked tactfully away. That you, Patricia! came to reply. Patricia was conscious that all her anger had vanished. Yes, who's speaking? Peter. Peter. Yes. How are you? Did you ring me up to ask after my health? There was a love at the other end. Well? inquired Patricia, who knew she was behaving like a schoolgirl. Did you get my message? I'm very angry. Why? Because you've made me ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys, and telephoning. May I call? No. I'm coming tomorrow night. I shall be out. And I'll wait until you return. Are you playing the game, do you think? I must see you. Expect me about nine. I shall do nothing of the sort. Please don't be angry, Patricia. Well, you mustn't come, then. Thank you for the chocolates and flowers. That's all right. Don't forget tomorrow at nine. I tell you, I shall be out. Right, oh. Goodbye. Without waiting for her reply, Patricia hung up the receiver. Then she returned to the lounge, her cheeks were flushed, and she was feeling absurdly happy. Then, a moment after, she asked herself what it was to her whether he remembered or forgot her. He was an entire stranger, or at least, he ought to be. Just as she was going up to her room for the night, another telegram arrived. It contained three words. Good night, Peter. Huff all the ridiculous creatures! She murmured, laughing in spite of herself. CHAPTER V Galvin House dined at seven-thirty. Miss Wangle had used all her arts in an endeavour to have the hour altered to eight-fifteen or eight-thirty. It would add tone to the establishment, she had explained to Mrs. Grask Morton. It is dreadfully suburban to dine at half-past-seven. Conscious of the views of the other guests, Mrs. Grask Morton had held out, necessitating the bringing up of Miss Wangle's heavy artillery, the bishop, whose actual views Miss Wangle shrouded in a mist of words. As far as could be guarded, the illustrious prelate held out very little hope of salvation for anyone who dined earlier than eight-thirty. Just as Mrs. Grask Morton was wavering, Mr. Bolton had floored Miss Wangle on her ecclesiastical relic with the simple question, And who'll pay for the biscuits I shall have to eat to keep going until half-past-eight? That had clinched the matter. Galvin House continued to dine at the unfashionable hour of seven-thirty. Miss Wangle had resigned herself to the inevitable, conscious that she had done her utmost for the social salvation of her fellow-guests, and meantly reproaching Providence for casting her a lot with the Cordles and the Bolton's, rather than with the Deviers and the Montmoreuses. Mr. Bolton confided to his fellow-borders what he conceived to be the real cause of Mrs. Grask Morton's decision. She's afraid of what Miss Wangle would eat if left unfed for an extra hour, he had said. Miss Wangle's appetite was like Dominique Samson's favourite adjective, prodigious. So it came about that on the Friday evening, on which Colonel Peter Bone had announced his intention of calling on Patricia, Galvin House, all in conscious of the event, sat down to its evening meal at its usual time in its usual coats and blouses, with its usual vacuous smiles and small talk, and above all with its usual appetite, an appetite that had caused Mrs. Grask Morton to bless the inauguration of food control, and to pray devoutly to Providence for food tickets. Had anyone suggested to Patricia that she had dressed with more than usual care that evening, she would have denied it. She might even have been annoyed. Her simple evening frock of black voile, unrelieved by any colour, savour ribbon of St. Patrick's green that bound her hair, showed up the pailings of her skin and the redness of her lips. At the last moment, as if in the protest, she had pinned some of Bone's carnations in her belt. As she entered the dining-room, Mrs. Wengel and Mrs. Moskrup Smythe exchanged significant glances, womanlike they sensed something unusual. Galvin House did not usually dress for dinner. Going out, inquired Mrs. Moskrup Smythe sweetly. Probably, was Patricia's laconic reply. Soup had not been disposed of. It was soup on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, fished on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and neither on Sundays at Galvin House. Before Gustav entered with an enormous bouquet of crimson carnations, it might almost be said that the carnations entered propelled by Gustav, as there was very little but Gustav's smiling face above and the ends of his legs below the screen of flowers. Instinctively, everybody looked at Patricia. For you, Miss, with Colonel Barnes compliments. Gustav stood irresolute, the crimson blooms cascading before him. You've forgotten the conservatory, Gustav, loved Mr. Bolton. It was always easy to identify the facetious from the serious Mr. Bolton. His jokes were always heralded by a laugh. Sir, interrogated the litter of minded Gustav. Never mind Gustav, Mr. Bolton was joking, said Mrs. Graskmorton. Yes, madam, Gustav smiled a mechanical smile. He overflowed with tact. Where will you have the flowers, Miss Brent? inquired Mrs. Graskmorton. They're exquisite. Try the bath, suggested Mr. Bolton. Sir, from Gustav. It was Alice, Gustav's assistant in the dining-room during meals, who created the diversion for which Patricia had been devoutly praying. An affected little laugh from his fiscum called the tension to Alice, standing just inside the door, with an enormous white and gold box tied with bright green ribbon. Patricia regarded the girl in dismay. Put them in the lounge, please, she said. You are lucky, Miss Brent, giggled Miss Sikkim envisely. I wonder what's in the box? A chess protector. Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out. Really, Mr. Bolton? From Mrs. Graskmorton. Patricia wondered, was she lucky? Why should she be made ridiculous in this fashion? I should say chocolates. The suggestion came from Mr. Cordell through a mouthful of roast beef and Brussels sprouts. Everyone turned to the speaker, whose gastronomic silence was one of the most cherished traditions of Galvin House. He must have plenty of money, remarked Mrs. Moskrup's smite to Miss Wangle in a whisper, audible to all. Those flowers and chocolates must have cost a lot. Ten pounds! The remark met a large Brussels sprouts that Mr. Cordell was conveying to his mouth, and summarily ejected it. As Mr. Cordell was something on the stock exchange, Mr. Bolton at once said, he must be a bear. He was, at Galvin House, the recognized authority upon all matters of finance. Really, Mr. Cordell, expostulated Mrs. Graskmorton, rather outraged at this open discussion of Patricia's affairs. Sure of it, was all Mr. Cordell vouchsaved as he shoveled in another mouthful. You've been a goer in your time, Mr. Cordell, said Mr. Bolton. Mr. Cordell grunted, which may have meant anything, but in all probability meant nothing. For a quarter of an hour the inane conversation so characteristic of mealtimes at Galvin House continued without interruption. How Patricia hated it! Was this all that life held for her? Was she always to be a dredge to the Bonsers, a victim of the Wengels, and a target for the Bolton's of life? It was to escape such drab existences that girls went on the stage, or worse. And why not? She had only one life so far she knew, and here she was, sacrificing it to the jungle people, as she called them. Was there no escape? What St. George would rescue her from this dragon of? Colonel Bown, Miss? Patricia looked up with a stout from the epitode with which she was trifling. Gustave soup beside her, his face glowing in a way that hinted at a handsome tip. He was all unconscious that he had answered a very difficult question in a manner entirely unsatisfactory to Patricia. I have shown him in the lounge, Miss. He will wait. Patricia believed him. Was ever a man so persistent? She saw through the move. He had come an hour earlier to be sure of catching her before she went out. Patricia was once more conscious of the ridiculous behaviour of her heart. It thumbed and pounded against her ribs as if determined to compromise her with the rest of the borders. Very well, Gustave. Say we are at dinner. Yes, Miss. And Gustave proceeded with his duties. He's clever, was Patricia's inward comment. He's bought Gustave, and in an hour he'll have the whole blessed place against me. If the effect upon Patricia of Gustave's announcement had been startling, that upon the rest of the company was galvanic, each felt aggrieved that proper notice had not been given of so auspicious an event. There was a general feeling of resentment against Patricia for not having told them that she expected bone to call. There were covered glances at their garments by the ladies, and among the men a consciousness that the clothes they were wearing were not those they had upstairs. Miss. Sikkim's playful fancy was with the bricks in Paris model, which only that day she had taken to the cleaners. Miss. Wangle was conscious that she had not hung herself with her full equipment of chains and accoutrements. Mrs. Boulton had doubts about his colour and his boots, whilst Mr. Cuoro, with the aid of his napkin and some water from a drinking-glass, strove through a move from his waistcoat, reminiscences of bygone reposts. The other members of the company all had something to regret. Mr. Archibald Sefton, whose occupation was a secret between himself and Providence, was dubious about the creases in his trousers. Mrs. Barnes, who had been in the company for a long time, said that he had dubious about the creases in his trousers. Mrs. Barnes wondered if the gallant Colonel would discover the ink she had that day applied to the seams of her dress. Everyone was constrained and anxious to get to his or to her room for repairs. Did you know Colonel Boone was coming, inquired Mrs. Graskmorton quite at her ease in the knowledge that something had told her to put on her best black silk and a large cameo pendant that made her look like a wine steward at a fashionable restaurant. He said he might drop in, but he's so casual that I didn't think it worth mentioning, said Patricia, conscious that the reply was unanimously regarded as unconvincing. Having finished her coffee, Patricia rose in a leisurely manner. She was no sooner out of the door than a veritable stampede ensued. Everyone intended just to slip upstairs for a moment, and each glared at the other on discovering that all seemed inspired by the same idea. Mrs. Graskmorton went to her boudoir of tactful consideration for the young lovers. Mrs. Hamilton went up to the drawing room for the same reason. Patricia paused for a moment outside the door of the lounge. She put her cool hands through her hot cheeks, wondering why her heart should show so little regard for her feelings. She felt an impulse to run away and lock herself in her own room and cry Go away to anyone who might knock. She strove to work herself into a state of anger with Boone for daring to come an hour before the time appointed. As she entered the lounge, Boone sprang up and came towards her. There was a spirit of boyish mischief lurking in his eyes. I suppose, said Patricia as they shook hands, you think this is very clever. Please, Patricia, don't bully me. Patricia laughed in spite of herself at the humility and appeal in his voice. She was conscious that she was not behaving as she ought or had intended to behave. It seems an age since I saw you, he continued. Forty-eight hours to be exact, commented Patricia, forgetful of all the reproachful things she had intended to say. You got the flowers? As his eye fell on the carnations which Gustav had placed in a large bowl. Yes, thank you very much indeed. They're exquisite. They made Miss Sickham quite envious. Who's Miss Sickham? Time, in all probability, will show, replied Patricia, seating herself on a settee. Boone drew up a chair and said opposite to her. She liked him for that. Had he sat beside her, she'd hold herself, she would have hated him. You're not angry with me, Patricia, are you? There was an anxious note in his voice. Do you appreciate that you've made me extremely ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys, conservatories, and confectioner shops? Why did you do it? I don't know. He confessed with unconscious goshery. I simply couldn't get you out of my thoughts. Which shows that you tried? commented Patricia, the lightnings of her words, contradicted by the blush that accompanied them. The king's regulations do not provide for Patricia's, he replied, and I had to try. That is how I knew. Do you think I'm a cormorant as well as an abandoned person? she demanded. A cormorant cried Boone, ignoring the second question. I don't understand. Within twenty-four hours you've sent me enough chocolates to last for a couple of months. Poor Patricia, he laughed. You mustn't call me Patricia, Colonel Boone, she said primly. What will people think? What would they think if they heard the man you're engaged to call you Miss Brent? We're not engaged, said Patricia, hotly. We are, his eyes smiled into hers. I can bring all these people here to prove it on your own statement. She bit her lip. Are you going to be mean? Are you going to play the game? She awaited his reply with an anxiety she strove to disguise. Boone looked straight into her eyes until they fell beneath his gaze. I'm afraid I've got to be mean, Patricia, he said quietly. May we smoke? As she took a cigarette from his case and he lighted it for her, Patricia found herself experiencing a new sensation. Without apparent effort he had assumed control of the situation with a masterfulness that she felt rather than acknowledged, had put the subject aside as if requiring no further comment. This was a side of Boone's character that she had not yet seen. As she was debating with herself whether or no she liked it, the door opened, giving access to a stream of Galvan hausites. Oh, gasped Patricia hysterically. They're all dressed up, and it's in your honor. What's that? Enquired Boone, less mentally agile than Patricia as he turned round to gaze at the string of paying guests that ooze into the room. They've put on their best bibs and took us for you, she cried. Oh, please don't even smile. Please! The first to enter was Miss Wangle. Although she had not changed her dress, it was obvious that she had taken considerable pains with her personal appearance. On her fingers were more than the usual weight of rings. Round her neck were flung a few additional chains. On her arms hung an extra bracelet or two, and, as a final touch, she had added a fan to her equipment. To Patricia's keen eyes it was clear that she had redone her hair and she carried her lignettes, things that in themselves be taken to ceremonial occasion. Following Miss Wangle like an echo came Mrs. Moskrop's smith. She'd evidently taken her courage in both hands and donned the blue evening frock to which she had added a pair of white gloves which reached barely to the elbow, although the frock ended just below her shoulders. Miss Wangle bowed graciously to Patricia. Mrs. Moskrop's smith followed suit. They moved over to the extreme end of the room. Mr. Quarrell was the next arrival, closely followed by Mr. Bolton. At the side of Mr. Quarrell Patricia started and bit her lower lip. He had assumed a vivid blue tie and had obviously changed his colour. From the darker spots on his waistcoat and coat it was evident that he had subjected his clothes to a vigorous process of cleaning. Mr. Bolton, on the other hand, had followed Mrs. Moskrop's smith's lead and made a clean sweep. He'd assumed a black frock coat, but had apparently not thought it worthwhile to change his brown-tweet trousers which hung about his boots in shapeless folds as if conscious that they had no right there. He too had done the clean colour and, by way of adding to his splendour, had assumed a white satin necktie threaded through a diamond ring. His thin dark hair was generously oiled and, as he passed over to the side of the room occupied by Miss Wengor and Mrs. Moskrop's smith, he left behind him a strong odour of verbena. Mrs. Barnes came next and, one by one, the other guests drifted in. All had assumed something in the nature of a wedding garment in honour of Patricia's fiancée. Miss Sickham had selected a pea-green satin blouse which caused bone to screw his eyeglass vigorously into his eye and gaze-head her in wonder. Do you like them? It was Patricia who broke the silence. With a start, bone turned to her. Um, eh, they seemed an awfully decent crowd. Patricia laughed. Yes, aren't they? Dreadfully decent. How would you like to live among them all? Why, they haven't a pluck to break a commandment among them. Bone looked at Patricia in surprise. Really, was the only remark he could think of. And now I've shocked you, cried Patricia. He must not think that I like people who break commandments. I don't know exactly what I do mean. Oh, here you are. And she ran across as Mrs. Hamilton entered and drew her to its bone. Now I know what I meant. This dear little creature has never broken a commandment. I wouldn't mind betting everything I have. And she has never been uncharitable to anyone who has. Isn't that so? She turned to Mrs. Hamilton, who was regarding her in astonishment. Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm quite mad tonight. You mustn't mind. You see, Colonel Bone's mad, and he makes me mad. Turning to Bone, she introduced him to Mrs. Hamilton. This is my friend, Mrs. Hamilton. Then, to Mrs. Hamilton. You know all about Colonel Bone, don't you, dear? He's the man who sends me conservatories and telegrams and boy messengers and things. Mrs. Hamilton smiled up sweetly at Bone and held out her hand. Patricia glanced across at the group at the other end of the lounge. The scene reminded her of Napoleon on the Belerophon. Suddenly, she had an idea. It synchronized with the entry of Gustave, who stood just inside the door smiling innately. Call a taxi for Colonel Bone, please, Gustave. She said, coolly. Gustave looked surprised. The group looked disappointed. Bone looked at Patricia with a puzzled expression. I'm sorry you're in a hurry, said Patricia, holding out her hand to Bone. I'm busy also. But began Bone. Oh, don't trouble. Patricia advanced and he had perforced to retreat towards the door. See you again sometime. Goodbye. And Bone found himself in the hall. Damn, he muttered. Sir, interrogated Gustave anxiously. As Bone was replying to Gustave in the coin, Mrs. Graskmorten appeared at the head of the stairs on our way down to the lounge after her tactful absence. For a moment she hesitated in obvious surprise. Then, with the air of a would-be traveller who hears the guard's whistle, she threw dignity aside and made for Bone. Colonel Bone, she interrogated anxiously. Bone turned and bowed. I am Mrs. Graskmorten. Mrs. Brent did not tell me that you were making so short a call, or I would— Mrs. Graskmorten's pause implied that nothing would have prevented her from hurrying down. You are very kind, murmured Bone absently, not yet recovered from his unceremonious dismissal. He was brought back to realities by Mrs. Graskmorten expressing a hope that he would give her the pleasure of dining at Galvin House one evening. Shall we say a Friday? She continued, without allowing Bone time to reply. And we will keep it as a delightful surprise for Mrs. Brent. Mrs. Graskmorten exposed her teeth and felt romantic. When Bone left Galvin House that evening, he was pledged to give Patricia a delightful surprise on the following Friday. That will teach them to pity me, murmured Patricia that night as she brushed her hair with what seemed entirely unnecessary vigor. She was conscious that she was the best-hated girl in base water, as she recalled the angry and reproachful looks directed towards her by her fellow guests after Bone's departure. In an adjoining room, Miss Wengle, a black cap upon her head, was also engaged in brushing her hair with a gentleness foreign to most of her actions. The cat, she murmured as she laid in its drawer, and then as she locked the drawer she repeated, the cat. End of chapter 5