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"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 Wangle table.
"Oh, please, don't hurry! Let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time."
"Do you think I ought," enquired 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 am afraid I have enjoyed this most awfully; but oh! to-morrow morning."
"Shall you be tired?" he enquired.
"Tired!" she queried, "I shall be hot with shame. I shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. I – I shall give myself a most awful time. For days I shall live in torture. You see I'm excited now and – 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 have been thinking of me, and – and – oh! it will be awful. No; I'll come with you while you get your hat. I daren't be left alone. It might come on then and – and I should probably bolt. Of course I shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because – because – "
"I'm your fiancé," he smiled.
"Ummm," she nodded.
Both were silent as they sped along westward in the taxi, neither seeming to wish to break the spell.
"Thinking?" enquired Bowen at length, as they passed the Marble Arch.
"I was thinking how perfectly sweet you've been," replied Patricia gravely. "You have 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 you had done what you have done to-night. And now, please, tell me how much my dinner was."
"Your dinner!"
"Yes, ple-e-e-e-ase," 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 enquired 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 enquired. "Do you really mean it?"
"Yes, ple-e-e-ase," 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 a 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?" enquired the man.
"Oh, to hell!" burst out Bowen savagely.
"Yes, sir; but wot 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 Wangle 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?" lisped Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, who had followed Miss Wangle.
Patricia surveyed Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe with calculating calmness.
"If two people go to the same Grill-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 Wangle?"
"Did you say you were going there?" lisped Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, coming to Miss Wangle's assistance. "We forgot."
"Oh, do come in, Miss Brent!" It was Mrs. Craske-Morton who spoke.
Patricia entered the lounge and found, as she had anticipated, the whole establishment collected. Not one was missing. Even Gustave fluttered about from place to place, showing an unwonted 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 Wangle has been telling us all about your fiancé." It was Miss Sikkum who spoke. "Fancy your saying he was a major when he's a 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?" enquired Mrs. Craske-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 a 'R.S.O.' as well." Under her lashes Patricia saw, with keen appreciation, the quick glances that were exchanged.
"You mean a D.S.O., Distinguished Service Order," explained Mr. Bolton. "An R.S.O. is er – er – something you put on letters."
"Is it?" enquired Patricia innocently, "I'm so stupid at remembering such things."
"He was wearing the ribbon of the Military Cross, too," bubbled Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe.
"Was he?" Patricia was afraid of overdoing the pose of innocence she had adopted. "What a nuisance."
"A nuisance!" There was 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, D.S.O., M.C. 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 mischief took possession of her. "Do you know when I went up to him to-night I hadn't the remotest idea of what his Christian name was."
"Then what on earth do you call him then?" cried Mrs. Craske-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.
CHAPTER IV
THE MADNESS OF LORD PETER BOWEN
When Patricia awakened the next morning, it was with the feeling that she had 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 of the bedclothes, she wiped her eyes, just as the maid entered with the 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 Bowen. 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 Bowen 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 thoughts she had laid herself open. Her one consolation was that she would never see him again. Then, woman-like, 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 on to her typewriter. Mr. Bonsor looked up at this unwonted 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 enquired:
"Going out?"
"No," snapped Patricia, "I'm going home."
Mr. Bonsor raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He was a mild-mannered man who had learned the value of silence when faced 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 hat 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 Sloane Square Railway Station. Suddenly she slackened her speed. Why was she hurrying home? She felt 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 Sloane 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 Sikkum came out of the lounge simpering.
"Oh, Miss Brent! have you seen your beautiful presents?"
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 Sikkum looked at her in amazement.
"But aren't you going to open them?" she blurted out.
"Oh! presently," said Patricia in an off-hand way, "I had no idea it was so late," and she ran upstairs, leaving Miss Sikkum 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 presents brought in here, Miss Brent," explained Mrs. Craske-Morton.
"Oh! I had forgotten all about them," said Patricia indifferently, "I suppose I had better open them," which she proceeded to do.
The smaller box contained chocolates, 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 belied her. He had not forgotten! He had dared to disobey her injunction; for, she told herself, "good-bye" clearly forbade the sending of flowers and chocolates. She was unconscious that every eye was upon her, and the smile with which she regarded now the flowers, now the chocolates, was self-revelatory.
Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe 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. What had before been a tribute now became in her eyes an insult. Men sent chocolates and flowers to – to "those women"! If he respected her he would have done as she commanded him, instead of which he had sent her presents. 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 unmixed with disapproval. She was aware that her attitude was not the conventional pose of the happily-engaged girl. The situation was strange. Even Mr. Cordal 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 meal times 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 the base metal beneath. Patricia with assumed indifference laid it beside her plate.
"The boy ees waiting, mees," insinuated Gustave.
Patricia tore open the envelope and read: "May I come and see you this evening dont 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. Mosscrop-Smythe and the others.
"Why had she given the boy sixpence?" she asked herself as she slowly returned to the dining-room. Telegraph boys were paid. 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 Bowen for not doing as she had commanded him.
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 enquired, "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 are wanted, mees, on the telephone, please," he said.
Patricia was conscious once more of crimsoning as she turned to Gustave. "Please say that I'm 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 ees Colonel Baun, mees. He wish to speak to you."
"Tell him I'm at dinner," replied Patricia calmly. She could literally hear the gasp that went round the table.
