Patricia Brent, Spinster Part 33

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 Sikk.u.m 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 Sikk.u.m, "do tell us where you got the D.S.O."

Bowen screwed his gla.s.s into his eye and looked across at Miss Sikk.u.m, 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, amus.e.m.e.nt developed into torture. Would it never end? She glanced from Miss w.a.n.gle, all graciousness and smiles, to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her faded blue evening-frock, on to Miss Sikk.u.m 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 Sikk.u.m'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 n.o.body 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 Sikk.u.m 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 Sikk.u.m 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 Sikk.u.m will get ahead of you."

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

Miss Sikk.u.m's cheeks had a.s.sumed 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 Sikk.u.m, "aren't you going to say good night to him?"

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

"Yes; but I mean----" began Miss Sikk.u.m.

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

Miss Sikk.u.m'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.