Patricia Brent, Spinster

Mrs. Craske-Morton was determined to do her work thoroughly. She had taken the precaution of telling Patricia that dinner would not be served until a few minutes after eight, that would give her time to introduce Bowen to all the guests. She proceeded to conduct him round to everyone in turn. In her flurry she quite forgot the careful schooling to which she had subjected herself for a week past, and she introduced Miss Wangle to Bowen.

"Lord Peter, allow me to introduce Miss Wangle. Miss Wangle, Lord Peter Bowen," and this was the form adopted with the rest of the company.

Bowen's sixth bow had just been interrupted by Mr. Cordal grasping him warmly by the hand, when Patricia entered. For a moment she looked about her regarding the strange toilettes, then she saw Bowen. She felt herself crimsoning as he slipped away from Mr. Cordal's grasp and came across to her. All the guests hung back as if this were the meeting between Wellington and Blücher.

"I've done six, there are about twenty more to do. If you save me, Patricia, I'll forgive you anything after we're married."

Patricia shook hands sedately.

Mrs. Craske-Morton bustled up to re-claim Bowen. "A little surprise, Miss Brent; I hope you will forgive me."

Patricia smiled at her in anything but a forgiving spirit.

"And now, Lord Peter, I want to introduce you to – "

"Deenair is served, madame." Gustave was certainly doing the thing in style.

At a sign from Mrs. Craske-Morton, Miss Wangle secured Mr. Samuel Ragbone and they started for the dining-room. The remainder of the guests paired off in accordance with Mrs. Craske-Morton's instructions, written and verbal, she left nothing to chance, and the procession was brought up by Mrs. Craske-Morton herself and Bowen. Patricia fell to the lot of Mr. Sefton.

As soon as the guests were seated a death-like stillness reigned. Bowen was looking round with interest as he unfolded his napkin into which had been deftly inserted a roll. Miss Sikkum, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe and Mr. Bolton each lost their rolls, which were retrieved from underneath the table by Gustave and Alice.

Mr. Sefton, also unconscious of the secreted roll, opened his napkin with a debonair jerk to show that he was quite at his ease. The bread rose in the air. He made an unsuccessful clutch, touched but could not hold it, and watched with horror the errant roll hit Miss Wangle playfully on the side of the nose, just as she was beginning to tell Bowen about "the dear bishop."

Patricia bit her lip, Bowen bent solicitously over the angry Miss Wangle, whilst Mr. Bolton threatened to report Mr. Sefton to the Food Controller. Gustave created a diversion by arriving with the soup. His white cotton gloves, several sizes too large even for his hands, caused him great anxiety. Every spare moment during the evening he spent in clutching them at the wrists, just as they were on the point of slipping off. Nothing, however, could daunt his courage or mitigate his good-humour. For the first time in his life he was waiting upon a real lord, and from the circumstance he was extracting every ounce of satisfaction it possessed.

In serving Bowen his attitude was that of one self-convicted of unworthiness. Accustomed to the complaints and bickerings of a Bayswater boarding-house, Bowen's matter-of-fact motions of acceptance or refusal impressed him profoundly. So this was how lords behaved. Nothing so impressed him as the little incident of the champagne.

At Galvin House it was the custom for the guests to have their own drinks. Mr. Cordal, for instance, drank what the label on the bottle announced to be "Gumton's Superior Light Dinner Ale." Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe favoured Guinness's Stout, Miss Sikkum took hot water, whilst Miss Wangle satisfied herself with a claret bottle. There is refinement in claret, the dear bishop always drank it, with water: but as claret costs money Miss Wangle made a bottle last for months.

The thought of the usual heterogeneous collection of bottles on the occasion of Lord Peter's visit had filled Mrs. Craske-Morton with horror, and she had decided to "spring" wine, as Mr. Bolton put it. In other words, she supplied for the whole company four bottles of one-and-eightpenny claret, the bottles rendered beautifully old by applied dust and cobwebs. To this she had added a bottle of grocer's champagne for Bowen. Gustave had been elaborately instructed that this was for the principal guest and the principal guest only, and Mrs. Craske-Morton had managed to convey to him in some subtle way that if he poured so much as a drop of the precious fluid into any other person's glass, the consequences would be too terrifying even to contemplate.

Whilst Galvin House was murmuring softly over its soup, Gustave approached Bowen with the champagne bottle swathed in a white napkin, and looking suspiciously like an infant in long clothes. Holding the end of the bottle's robes with the left hand so that it should not tickle Bowen's ear, Gustave bent anxiously to his task.

Bowen, however, threw a bomb-shell at the earnest servitor. He motioned that he did not desire champagne. Gustave hesitated and looked enquiringly at his mistress. Here was an unlooked-for development.

"You'll take champagne?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton ingratiatingly.

Gustave breathed again, and whilst Bowen's attention was distracted in explaining to Mrs. Craske-Morton that he preferred water, he had a delicate taste in wine, Gustave filled the glass happily. Of course, it was all right, he told himself, the lord merely wanted to be pressed. If he had really meant "no," he would have put his hand over his glass, as Miss Sikkum always did when she refused some of Mr. Cordal's "Light Dinner Ale."

Gustave retired victorious with the champagne bottle, which he placed upon the sideboard. At every interval in his manifold duties, Gustave returned with the white-clothed bottle, and strove to squeeze a few more drops into Bowen's untouched glass.

The terrifying constraint with which the meal had opened gradually wore off as the wine circulated. Following the path of least resistance, it mounted to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe's head; but with Miss Sikkum it seemed to stop short at her nose. Mr. Cordal's shirt-front announced that he had temporarily given up Gumton in favour of the red, red wine of the smoking-concert baritone. Mrs. Barnes seemed on the point of tears, whilst Mr. Sefton's attentions to Patricia were a direct challenge to Bowen.

Conversation at Galvin House was usually general; but it now became particular. Every remark was directed either to or at Bowen, and each guest strove to hear what he said. Those who were fortunate enough to catch his replies told those who were not. A smile or a laugh from anyone who might be in conversation with Bowen rippled down the table. Mr. Cordal was less intent upon his food, and his inaccuracy of aim became more than ever noticeable.

"Oh, Lord Bowen!" simpered Miss Sikkum, "do tell us where you got the D.S.O."

Bowen screwed his glass into his eye and looked across at Miss Sikkum, at the redness of her nose and the artificial rose in her hair. Everyone was waiting anxiously for Bowen's reply. Mr. Cordal grunted approval.

"At Buckingham Palace," said Bowen, "from the King. They give you special leave, you know."

Patricia looked across at him and smiled. What was he thinking of Galvin House refinement? What did he think of her for being there? Well, he had brought it on himself and he deserved his punishment. At first Patricia had been amused: but as the meal dragged wearily on, amusement developed into torture. Would it never end? She glanced from Miss Wangle, all graciousness and smiles, to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her faded blue evening-frock, on to Miss Sikkum bare and abandoned. She heard Mr. Sefton's chatter, Mr. Bolton's laugh, Mr. Cordal's jaws and lips. She shuddered. Why did not she accept the opening of escape that now presented itself and marry Bowen? He could rescue her from all this and what it meant.

"And shall we all be asked to the wedding, Lord Bowen?"

It was again Miss Sikkum's thin voice that broke through the curtain of Patricia's thoughts.

"I hope all Miss Brent's friends will be there," replied Bowen diplomatically.

"And now we shall all have to fetch and carry for Miss Brent," laughed Mr. Bolton. "Am I your friend, Miss Brent?" he enquired.

"She always laughs at your jokes when nobody else can," snapped Miss Pilkington.

Everybody turned to the speaker, who during the whole meal had silently nursed her resentment at having been placed at the bottom of the table. Mr. Bolton looked crestfallen. Bowen looked across at Patricia and saw her smile sympathetically at Mr. Bolton.

"I think from what I have heard, Mr. Bolton," he said, "that you may regard yourself as one of the elect."

Patricia flashed Bowen a grateful look. Mr. Bolton beamed and, turning to Miss Pilkington, said with his usual introductory laugh:

"Then I shall return good for evil, Miss Pilkington, and persuade Lady Peter to buy her stamps at your place."

Miss Pilkington flushed at this reference to her calling, a particularly threadbare joke of Mr. Bolton's.

"When is it to be, Lord Peter?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton.

Miss Sikkum looked down modestly at her plate, not quite certain whether or no this were a delicate question.

"That rests with Miss Brent," replied Bowen, smiling. "If you, her friends, can persuade her to make it soon, I shall be very grateful."

Miss Sikkum simpered and murmured under her breath, "How romantic."

"Now, Miss Brent," said Mr. Bolton, "it's up to you to name the happy day."

Patricia smiled, conscious that all eyes were upon her; but particularly conscious of Bowen's gaze.

"I believe in long engagements," she said, stealing a glance at Bowen and thrilling at the look of disappointment on his face. "Didn't Jacob serve seven years for Rachel?"

"Yes, and got the wrong girl then," broke in Mr. Bolton. "You'll have to be careful, Miss Brent, or Miss Sikkum will get ahead of you."

"Really, Mr. Bolton!" said Mrs. Craske-Morton, looking anxiously at Bowen.

Miss Sikkum's cheeks had assumed the same tint as her nose, and her eyes were riveted upon her plate. Miss Pilkington muttered something under her breath about Mr. Bolton's remark being outrageous.

"I think we'll take coffee in the lounge," said Mrs. Craske-Morton, rising. Turning to Bowen, she added, "We follow the American custom, Lord Peter, the gentlemen always leave the dining-room with the ladies."

There was a pushing back of chairs and a shuffling of feet and Galvin House rose from its repast.

"Coffee will not be served for half an hour, and if you and Miss Brent would like to – to – "

Mrs. Craske-Morton paused significantly. "My boudoir is at your service."

Bowen looked at her and then at Patricia. He saw the flush on her cheeks and the humiliation in her eyes.

"I think we should much prefer not to interrupt our pleasant conversation. What do you say, Patricia?" he enquired, turning to Patricia, who smiled her acquiescence.

They all trooped into the lounge, where everybody except Patricia, Bowen and Mrs. Craske-Morton stood about in awkward poses. The arrival of Gustave with coffee relieved the tension.

For the next hour each guest endeavoured to attract to himself or herself Bowen's attention, and each was disappointed when at length he rose to go and shook hands only with Mrs. Craske-Morton, including the others in a comprehensive bow. Still more were they disappointed and surprised when Patricia did not go out into the hall to see him off.

"Oh, Miss Brent!" simpered Miss Sikkum, "aren't you going to say good night to him?"

"Good night!" interrogated Patricia, "but I did."

"Yes; but I mean – " began Miss Sikkum.

"Oh, you know," she said with a simper, but Patricia had passed over to a chair, where she seated herself and began to read a newspaper upside down.

Miss Sikkum's romantic soul had received a shock.

CHAPTER XV

MR. TRIGGS TAKES TEA IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

I

"Well, me dear, 'ow goes it?"

Mr. Triggs flooded the room with his genial person, mopping his brow with a large bandana handkerchief, and blowing a cheerful protest against the excessive heat.

Patricia looked up from her work and greeted him with a tired smile, as he collapsed heavily upon a chair, which creaked ominously beneath his weight.

"When you're sixty-two in the shade it ain't like being twenty-five in the sun," he said, laughing happily at his joke.

"Now you must sit quiet and be good," admonished Patricia. "I'm busy with beetles."

"Busy with what?" demanded Mr. Triggs arresting the process of fanning himself with his handkerchief.

"The potato-beetle," explained Patricia. "There is no lack of variety in the life of an M.P.'s secretary: babies and beetles, pigs and potatoes, meat and margarine, they all have their allotted place."

"Arthur works you too 'ard, me dear, I'm afraid," said Mr. Triggs. "I must speak to 'im about it."

"Oh, Mr. Triggs! You mustn't do anything of the sort. He's most kind and considerate, and if I am here I must do what he wants."

"But beetles and babies and potatoes, me dear," said Mr. Triggs. "That's more than a joke."

"Oh! you don't know what a joke a beetle can be," said Patricia, looking up and laughing in spite of herself at the expression of anxiety on Mr. Triggs's face.

Mr. Triggs mumbled something to himself.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed a moment after. "'Ere am I, forgetting what I come about. I've seen The Morning Post, me dear."

Patricia pushed back her chair from the table and turned and faced Mr. Triggs.

"Mr. Triggs," she said, "if you mention the words Morning Post to me again I think I shall kill you."

Mr. Triggs's hands dropped to his side as he gazed at her in blank astonishment. "But, me dear – " he began.

"The engagement has been broken off," announced Patricia.

Mr. Triggs's jaw dropped, and he gazed at Patricia in amazement. "Broken off," he repeated. "Engagement broken off. Why, damn 'im, I'll punch 'is 'ead," and he made an effort to rise.

Patricia laughed, a little hysterically.

"You mustn't blame Lord Peter," she said. "It is I who have broken it off."

Mr. Triggs collapsed into the chair again. "You broke it off," he exclaimed. "You broke off the engagement with a nice young chap like 'im?"

Patricia nodded.

"Well, I'm blowed!" Mr. Triggs sat staring at Patricia as if she had suddenly become transformed into a dodo. After nearly a minute's contemplation of Patricia, a smile slowly spread itself over his features, like the sun breaking through a heavy cloud-laden sky.

"You been 'avin' a quarrel, that's what's the matter," he announced with a profound air of wisdom.

Patricia shook her head with an air of finality; but Mr. Triggs continued to nod his head wisely.

"That's what's the matter," he muttered. "Why," he added, "you'll never get another young chap like 'im. Took a great fancy to 'im, I did. Now all you've got to do is just to kiss and make it up. Then you'll feel 'appier than ever afterwards."

Patricia realised the impossibility of conveying to Mr. Triggs that her decision was irrevocable. Furthermore she was anxious that he should go, as she had promised to get out certain statistics for Mr. Bonsor.

"Now you really must go, Mr. Triggs. You won't think me horrid, will you, but I had a half-holiday the other day, and now I must work and make up for it. That's only fair, isn't it?"

"Very well, me dear, I can't stay. I'll be off and get out of your way. Now don't forget. Make it up, kiss and be friends. That's my motto."

"It isn't a quarrel, Mr. Triggs; but it's no use trying to explain to anyone so sweet and nice as you. Anyhow, I have broken off the engagement, and Lord Peter is in no way to blame."

"Well, good-bye, me dear. I'll see you again soon," said Mr. Triggs, still nodding his head with genial conviction as to the rightness of his diagnosis. "And now I'll be trottin'. Don't forget," and with a final look over his shoulder and another nod of wisdom he floated out of the room, seeming to leave it cold and bare behind him.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered as he walked away from Eaton Square. Arrived at the corner of Eaton Place, he stood still as if uncertain what direction to take. Seeing a crawling taxi he suddenly seemed inspired with an idea.

"Hi! Hi! Taxi!" he shouted, waving his umbrella. Having secured the taxi and given the man instructions to drive to the Quadrant, he hauled himself in and sat down with a sigh of satisfaction.

It was a few minutes to one as he asked for Lord Peter Bowen at the enquiry-office of the Quadrant. Two minutes later Peel descended in the lift to inform him that his Lordship had not yet returned to lunch. Was Mr. Triggs expected?

"Well, no," confessed Mr. Triggs, looking at Peel a little uncertainly. "'E wasn't expecting me; but 'e asked me the other night if I'd call in when I was passing, and as I was passing I called in, see?"

For a moment Peel seemed to hesitate.

"His Lordship has a luncheon engagement, sir," he said; "but he could no doubt see you for two or three minutes if he asked you to call. Perhaps you will step this way."

Before Mr. Triggs had a chance of doing as was suggested, Peel had turned aside.

"No, my lady, his Lordship is not in yet; but he will not be more than a minute or two. This gentleman," he looked at the card, "Mr. Triggs, is – "

"Oh, Mr. Triggs, how do you do?" cried Lady Tanagra, extending her hand.

Mr. Triggs looked at the exquisite little vision before him in surprise and admiration. He took the proffered hand as if it had been a piece of priceless porcelain.

"I'm Lord Peter's sister, you know. I've heard all about you from Patricia. Do come up and let us have a chat before my brother comes."

Mr. Triggs followed Lady Tanagra into the lift, too surprised and bewildered to make any response to her greeting. As the lift slid upwards he mopped his brow vigorously with his handkerchief.

When they were seated in Bowen's sitting-room he at last found voice.

"I just been to see 'er," he said.

"Who, Patricia?" asked Lady Tanagra.

Mr. Triggs nodded, and there was a look in his eyes which implied that he was not at all satisfied with what he had seen.

"Quarrelled, 'aven't they?"' he asked.

"Well," began Lady Tanagra, not quite knowing how much Mr. Triggs actually knew of the circumstances of the case.

"Said she'd broken it off. I gave her a talking to, I did. She'll never get another young chap like 'im."

"Did you tell her so?" asked Lady Tanagra.

"Tell her so, I should think I did!" said Mr. Triggs, "and more than once too."

"Oh, you foolish, foolish man!" cried Lady Tanagra, wringing her hands in mock despair. A moment afterwards she burst out laughing at the comical look of dismay on Mr. Triggs's face.

"What 'ave I done?" he cried in genuine alarm.

"Why, don't you see that you have implied that all the luck is on her side, and that will make her simply furious?"

"But – but – " began Mr. Triggs helplessly, looking very much like a scolded child.

"Now sit down," ordered Lady Tanagra with an irresistible smile, "and I'll tell you. My brother wants to marry Patricia, and Patricia, for some reason best known to herself, says that it can't be done. Now I'm sure that she is fond of Peter; but he has been so impetuous that he has rather taken her breath away. I've never known him like it before," said Lady Tanagra plaintively.

"But 'e's an awfully lucky fellow if 'e gets 'er," broke in Mr. Triggs, as if feeling that something were required of him.

"Why, of course he is," said Lady Tanagra. "Now will you help us, Mr. Triggs?"

Lady Tanagra looked at him with an expression that would have extracted a promise of help from St. Anthony himself.

"Of course I will, me dear. I – I beg your pardon," stuttered Mr. Triggs.

"Never mind, let it stand at that," said Lady Tanagra gaily. "I'm sure we're going to be friends, Mr. Triggs."

"Knew it the moment I set eyes on you," said Mr. Triggs with conviction.

"Well, we've got to arrange this affair for these young people," said Lady Tanagra with a wise air. "First of all we've got to prove to Patricia that she is really in love with Peter. If she's not in love with him, then we've got to make her in love with him. Do you understand?"

Mr. Triggs nodded his head with an air that clearly said he was far from understanding.

"Well, now," said Lady Tanagra. "Patricia knows only three people that know Peter. There is you, Godfrey Elton, and myself. Now if she's in love with him she will want to hear about him, and – "

"But ain't she going to see 'im?" demanded Mr. Triggs incredulously.

"No, she says that she doesn't want Peter ever to see her, write to her, telephone to her, or, as far as I can see, exist on the same planet with her."

"But – but – " began Mr. Triggs.

"It's no good reasoning with a woman, Mr. Triggs, we women are all as unreasonable as the Income Tax. Now if you'll do as you are told we will prove that Patricia is wrong."

"Very well, me dear," began Mr. Triggs.

"Now this is my plan," interrupted Lady Tanagra. "If Patricia really cares for Peter she will want to hear about him from friends. She will, very cleverly, as she thinks, lead up the conversation to him when she meets you, or when she meets Godfrey Elton, or when she meets me. Now what we have to do is just as carefully to avoid talking about him. Turn the conversation on to some other topic. Now we've all got to plot and scheme and plan like – like – "

"Germans," interrupted Mr. Triggs.

"Splendid!" cried Lady Tanagra, clapping her hands.

"But why has she changed her mind?" asked Mr. Triggs.

"You must never ask a woman why she changes her frock, or why she changes her mind, because she never really knows," said Lady Tanagra. "Probably she does it because she hasn't got anything else particular to do at the moment. Ah! here's Peter," she cried.

Bowen came forward and shook hands cordially with Mr. Triggs.

"This is splendid of you!" he said. "You'll lunch with us, of course."

"Oh no, no," said Mr. Triggs. "I just ran in to – to – "

"To get to know me," said Lady Tanagra with a smile.

"Of course! That's it," cried Mr. Triggs, beaming. "I can't stop to lunch though, I'm afraid. I must be going to – "

"Have you got a luncheon engagement?" asked Lady Tanagra.

"Er – well, yes."

"Please don't tell fibs, Mr. Triggs. You're not engaged to lunch with anybody, and you're going to lunch with us, so that's settled."

"Why, bless my soul!" blew Mr. Triggs helplessly as he mopped his head with his handkerchief. "Why, bless my soul!"

"It's no good, Mr. Triggs. When Tanagra wants anything she has it," said Bowen with a laugh. "It doesn't matter whether it's the largest pear or the nicest man!"

Lady Tanagra laughed. "Now we'll go down into the dining-room."

For an hour and a half they talked of Patricia, and at the end of the meal both Lady Tanagra and Bowen knew that they had a firm ally in Mr. Triggs.

"Don't forget, Mr. Triggs," cried Lady Tanagra as she bade him good-bye in the vestibule. "You're a match-maker now, and you must be very careful."

And Mr. Triggs lifted his hat and waved his umbrella as, wreathed in smiles, he trotted towards the revolving doors and out into the street.

After he had gone Lady Tanagra extracted from Bowen a grudging promise of implicit obedience. He must not see, telephone, write or telegraph to Patricia. He was to eliminate himself altogether.

"But for how long, Tan?" he enquired moodily.

"It may be for years and it may be for ever," cried Lady Tanagra gaily as she buttoned her gloves. "Anyhow, it's your only chance."

"Damn!" muttered Bowen under his breath as he watched her disappear; "but I'll give it a trial."

II

The next afternoon as Patricia walked down the steps of Number 426 Eaton Square and turned to the left, she was conscious that in spite of the summer sunshine the world was very grey about her. She had not gone a hundred yards before Lady Tanagra's grey car slid up beside her.

"Will you take pity on me, Patricia? I'm at a loose end," cried Lady Tanagra.