Patricia Brent, Spinster Part 32

Patricia had once explained to an uncomprehending Aunt Adelaide that Galvin House had more manners than breeding.

On the Friday evening when Patricia returned to Galvin House, Gustave was in the hall.

"Oh, mees!" he involuntarily exclaimed.

Patricia waited for more; but after a moment of hesitation, Gustave disappeared along the hall as if there were nothing strange in his conduct, leaving Patricia staring after him in surprise.

At that moment Mrs. Craske-Morton bustled out of the lounge, full of an unwonted importance.

"Oh, Miss Brent!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad you've come. I have a few friends coming to dinner this evening and we are dressing."

Without waiting for a reply Mrs. Craske-Morton turned and disappeared along the pa.s.sage leading to the servants' regions.

At that moment Mr. Bolton appeared at the top of the stairs in his shirt sleeves; but at the sight of Patricia he turned and bolted precipitately out of sight.

Patricia walked slowly upstairs and along the corridor to her room, unconscious that each door she pa.s.sed was closed upon a tragedy.

In one room Mrs. Barnes sat on her bed in an agony of indecision and a camisole, wondering how the seams of her only evening frock could be made black with the blue-black ink that had been given her at the stationer's shop in error.

Mr. James Harris, a little bearded man with long legs and a short body, stood in front of his gla.s.s, frankly baffled by the problem of how to keep the top of his trousers from showing above the opening of his low-cut evening waistcoat, an abandoned garment that seemed determined to show all that it was supposed to hide.

Miss Sikk.u.m was engaged in a losing game with delicacy. On her lap lay the Brixton "Paris model blouse," which she had adorned with narrow black velvet ribbon. Should she or should she not enlarge the surface of exposure? If she did Miss w.a.n.gle might think her fast; if she did not Lord Peter might think her suburban.

Mr. Sefton was at work upon his back hair, striving to remove from his reflection in the gla.s.s a likeness to a sandy c.o.c.katoo.

Mr. Cordal was vainly struggling with a voluminous starched shirt, which as he bent seemed determined to give him the appearance of a pouter pigeon.

To each his tragedy and to all their anguish. Even Miss w.a.n.gle had her problem. Should she or should she not remove the lace from the modest V in her black silk evening gown. The thought of the bishop, however, proved too much for her, and her collar-bones continued to remain a mystery to Galvin House.

The dinner-gong found everyone anxious and unprepared. All had a vision of Bowen sitting in judgment upon them and mentally comparing Galvin House with Park Lane; for in Bayswater Park Lane is the pinnacle of culture and social splendour.

A few minutes after the last strain of the gong, sounded by Gustave in a manner worthy of the occasion, had subsided, Miss Sikk.u.m crept out from her room feeling very "undressed." The sight of Mr. Sefton nearly drove her back precipitately to the maiden fastness of her chamber.

"Was she really too undressed?" she asked herself.

Slowly the guests descended, each anxious to cede to others the pride of place, all absorbed with his or her particular tragedy. By the aid of pins Mr. Cordal had overcome his likeness to a pigeon, but he had not allowed for movement, which tore the pins from their hold, allowing his shirt-front to balloon out joyfully before him, for the rest of the evening obscuring his boots.

Miss w.a.n.gle looked at Miss Sikk.u.m and mentally thanked Heaven and the bishop that she had restrained her abandoned impulse to remove the black lace from her own neck.

Mr. Bolton's attention was concentrated upon the centre stud of his shirt. The b.u.t.ton-hole was too large, and the head of the stud insisted on disappearing in a most coquettish and embarra.s.sing manner.

Mr. Bolton was not sure that Bowen would approve of blue underwear, and consequently kept a finger and thumb upon his stud for the greater part of the evening.

As each entered the lounge, it was with a hurried glance round to see if the guest of the evening had arrived, followed by a sigh of relief on discovering that he had not. Mrs. Craske-Morton had taken the precaution of deferring the dinner until eight o'clock. She wished Bowen's entry to be dramatic.

Mrs. Craske-Morton had asked a few friends of her own to meet her distinguished guest; a Miss Plimsoll, who was composed in claret colour and royal blue tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Ragbone. Mrs. Ragbone was a stout, jolly woman with a p.r.o.nounced c.o.c.kney accent. Mr. Ragbone was a man whose eyebrows seemed to rise higher with each year, and whose manner of patient suffering became more pathetically unreal with the pa.s.sage of each season. Mrs. Craske-Morton always explained him as a solicitor. Morton, Gofrim and Bowett, of Lincoln's Inn, knew him as their chief clerk.

The atmosphere of the lounge was one of nervous tension. All were listening for the bell which would announce the arrival of Bowen. When at last he came, everybody was taken by surprise, Mr. Bolton's stud eluded his grasp, Mr. Sefton felt his back hair, whilst Miss Sikk.u.m blushed rosily at her own daring.

A dead silence spread over the company, broken by Gustave, who, throwing open the door with a flourish, announced "Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Peter Bowen, D.S.O." Bowen gave him a quick glance with widened eyes, then coming forward, shook hands with Mrs. Craske-Morton.

Miss Sikk.u.m was disappointed to find that he was in khaki. She had a vague idea that the n.o.bility adopted different evening clothes from the ordinary rank and file. It would have pleased her to see Bowen with velvet stripes down his trousers, a velvet collar and velvet cuffs. A coloured silk waistcoat would have convinced her.

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 w.a.n.gle to Bowen.

"Lord Peter, allow me to introduce Miss w.a.n.gle. Miss w.a.n.gle, 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 Blucher.

"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 w.a.n.gle 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 Sikk.u.m, 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 w.a.n.gle 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 w.a.n.gle, 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 circ.u.mstance he was extracting every ounce of satisfaction it possessed.

In serving Bowen his att.i.tude 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 Sikk.u.m took hot water, whilst Miss w.a.n.gle 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 w.a.n.gle 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 princ.i.p.al guest and the princ.i.p.al 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 gla.s.s, 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-sh.e.l.l 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s, as Miss Sikk.u.m 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 gla.s.s.