Sarah Vulliamy stared at her pink finger-tips.
“But,” she protested, “I wanted to marry George Fulke.”
“I can’t help that,” said Pardoner gloomily, filling her glass with
champagne. “I didn’t make the rotten Will.”
“Well, you needn’t be so ungallant about it,” retorted Sarah. “And it’s
no use giving me any more champagne, because I shan’t drink it. Filthy
stuff.”
Her companion raised his eyes to heaven.
“‘Filthy stuff,’” he breathed. “And I brought you here, because this is
the only place in London that’s got any left. ‘Filthy stuff.’ I daresay
it doesn’t appeal to you, but why blaspheme? Never mind. When we’re
married, I’ll——”
“I tell you,” said Sarah, “I want to marry George Fulke.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Pardoner. “George Fulke is a most desirable
young man. I should think, as a husband, he’d feed right out of your
hand. But there you are. You’ve refused him three times—on your own
confession: and now it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late at all,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I’m lunching with him
to-morrow, and, if I’m nice to him——”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Pardoner, “don’t go and play with fire. I know
what these lawyers are. If you went and got engaged to somebody else,
there’d be the devil to pay before we could straighten it out. Which
reminds me—the sooner our engagement’s announced——”
“But I don’t want to marry you,” wailed Sarah.
Pardoner clasped his head in his hands.
“Look here,” he said. “I don’t know how many proposals you’ve had,
but——”
“Thirty-nine,” said Sarah, “to date.”
“Well, do those thirty-nine include one from me?”
Sarah shook her fair head.
“I’ve often wondered why they didn’t,” she said.
Pardoner felt inclined to scream. Instead, he emptied his glass. Then he
leaned forward.
“Shall I tell you?” he said.
“Oh, do.”
“Because I’m—I’m already in love with somebody else.”
“Oh, Virgil, how exciting. Who is it?”
Pardoner swallowed.
“It isn’t exciting at all,” he said aggrievedly. “It’s very tragic. Here
have I been waiting and waiting for old James Tantamount to pass to a
well-earned rest, and now he’s done it—and fairly cramped my style.”
“But who is it, Virgil?”
“You wouldn’t know her,” protested Pardoner.
“Tell me her name.”
“Townshend. June Townshend. One of the Lincolnshire lot.”
Sarah knitted her brows.
“June Townshend,” she said musingly. “I never heard of her. Does
she——”
“I told you you hadn’t,” said Pardoner. “But that’s neither here nor
there. There’s my skeleton or cross, or whatever you like to dress it
in. You see, my lady, we’re both in the same sad boat. You want George,
and I want June. And we can’t have ’em.”
Sarah stretched out her hand.
“Let me look at the Will,” she said.
Pardoner produced and handed her a paper.
. . . . _subject to the aforesaid legacies give devise and bequeath all
my real and personal property of every sort and description as follows
to be divided equally between my nephew Virgil Pardoner of 79 St.
James’s Street, S.W. and my ward Sarah Cust Vulliamy at present of
Palfrey in the New Forest upon the absolute condition that my aforesaid
nephew and ward are married the one to the other within three months of
my death. But should my aforesaid nephew and ward or either of them fail
to observe this condition or dispute this Will then I devise and
bequeath the whole of my aforesaid property equally to the
undermentioned Institutions. . . ._
Sarah read the words thoughtfully.
“It doesn’t say how much, does it?”
“Wills don’t,” said Virgil. “That’s where the lawyers come in. Forsyth
tells me that, when everything’s paid, the money alone will be over six
hundred thousand.”
“It’s a shame,” cried Sarah. “A beastly shame. They say the Law’s just,
but it isn’t. Men always get the best. Here I get three hundred thousand
and lose my freedom. You get your share and me into the bargain. And
what about poor George? I shan’t know how to tell him.”