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"But, Miss Brent," began Mrs. Craske-Morton.
Patricia turned and looked straight into Mrs. Craske-Morton's eyes interrogatingly. Gustave hesitated. Mrs. Craske-Morton collapsed. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe exchanged meaning glances. Little Mrs. Hamilton looked concerned, almost a little sad. Patricia turned to Gustave.
"You heard, Gustave?"
"Yes, mees," 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 endeavours 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 ees waiting, mees," he announced.
Patricia tore open the envelope and read:
"DEAR PATRICIA,
"Won't you let me see you? Please remember that even the under-dog has his rights.
"Yours ever, "PETER."
"There is no answer, Gustave," said Patricia, and Gustave left the room disconsolately.
Half an hour later Gustave returned once more.
On his tray were three telegrams. Patricia looked about her wildly. "Had the man suddenly gone mad?" she asked herself. "Tell the boy not to wait, Gustave," she said.
"There ees three boys, mees."
The atmosphere was electrical. Mr. Bolton laughed, then stopped suddenly. Miss Sikkum simpered.
Patricia turned to Gustave with a calmness that was not reflected in her cheeks.
"Tell the three boys not to wait, Gustave."
"Yes, mees!" 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 Mrs. 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 Bowen'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 to remind her of what took place on the previous night, unless – unless – She hardly dare 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 angriest 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 maid? Her hands and feet were small. Her ankles well-shaped. Her figure had been praised, even by women. Her hair was a natural red-auburn. 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 to 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 enquired 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 am concerned. If there is 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 enquire. It is only that ridiculous Colonel Bowen who is showering telegrams on me in this way, in order, I suppose, to benefit the revenue. I think he has gone mad. Perhaps it's shell-shock, poor thing. There 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 Wangle says he is so distinguished-looking."
"Who?" enquired Patricia, with mock innocence.
"Colonel Bowen, 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. Craske-Morton ventured a suggestion that Colonel Bowen 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 fiancé turned out to be a private, Mrs. Craske-Morton 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 Gustave entered and approached Patricia. She groaned in spirit.
"You are wanted on the telephone, mees."
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 Baun, mees."
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. Mosscrop-Smythe. Rising slowly with an air of reconciled martyrdom, Patricia went to the telephone at the end of the hall, followed by the smiling Gustave, who, like the rest of Galvin House, had found his sense of decorum sorely outraged by Patricia's conduct.
"Hullo!" cried Patricia into the mouthpiece of the telephone, her heart thumping ridiculously.
Gustave walked tactfully away.
"That you, Patricia?" came the reply.
Patricia was conscious that all her anger had vanished.
"Yes, who is speaking?"
"Peter."
"Yes."
"How are you?"
"Did you ring me up to ask after my health?"
There was a laugh at the other end.
"Well!" enquired 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 to-morrow night."
"I shall be out."
"Then 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 to-morrow at nine."
"I tell you I shall be out."
"Right-oh!"
"Good-bye!"
Without waiting for a reply, Patricia hung up the receiver.
When 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."
"Of all the ridiculous creatures!" she murmured, laughing in spite of herself.
CHAPTER V
PATRICIA'S REVENGE
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. Craske-Morton. "It is dreadfully suburban to dine at half-past seven." Conscious of the views of the other guests, Mrs. Craske-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 gathered, the illustrious prelate held out very little hope of salvation for anyone who dined earlier than eight-thirty.
Just as Mrs. Craske-Morton was wavering, Mr. Bolton had floored Miss Wangle and 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 mentally reproaching Providence for casting her lot with the Cordals and the Boltons, rather than with the De Veres and the Montmorencies.
Mr. Bolton confided to his fellow-boarders what he conceived to be the real cause of Mrs. Craske-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 Dominie Sampson's favourite adjective, "prodigious."
So it came about that on the Friday evening on which Colonel Peter Bowen had announced his intention of calling on Patricia, Galvin House, all unconscious 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. Craske-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 save a ribbon of St. Patrick's green that bound her hair, showed up the paleness of her skin and the redness of her lips. At the last moment, as if under protest, she had pinned some of Bowen's carnations in her belt.
As she entered the dining-room, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe exchanged significant glances. Woman-like they sensed something unusual. Galvin House did not usually dress for dinner.
