At Queen Anne’s Gate
At half past four on the same afternoon, Inez Fratten walked into the
morning-room of her father’s big house in Queen Anne’s Gate, pulled
off her soft hat and threw it on to a chair, shook her hair loose, and
picked up a telephone.
“Wilton 0550 . . . Is that 27 Gr . . . Oh Jill! Inez speaking. Jill
darling, come and dine with us tonight and play Bridge. Ryland’s
dining in, as he calls it, for once in a blue moon. I’m so anxious
that one of his dangerous tastes should have the best and brightest
home influence to distract him from—et cetera, et cetera,—you
know—sweet young English girlhood and all the rest of it—you’re just
exactly it—with a small ‘i’. Yes, Golpin, I’ll have it in here. It’s
all right, darling, I’m talking about tea. I say, did you see Billie
last night? She was with that awful Hicking man again—you know, the
pineapple planter or whatever it is they make fortunes out of in
Borneo or New Guinea or somewhere. Billie’s simply fascinated with him
because he’s got a ruby tooth—she follows him about everywhere and
says awful things to make him laugh—he thinks he’s made a frightful
conquest. They were at the Pink Lizard last night, but you may have
left. Who was that exquisite young thing you’d got in tow? No—really—I
thought he was a pet. Well, you’re coming, aren’t you? If you want a
cocktail you must have it at home because father’s joined an
anti-cocktail league or made a corner in Marsala or something. So
long, my Jill. Eight o’clock—don’t be late, because we won’t wait.
Poitry.”
Inez put down the telephone and walked across to the fireplace. There
was a small Chippendale mirror above it and she was just tall enough
to see into it while she ran her fingers through the soft waves of her
brown hair—peculiarly golden-brown, lighter than auburn, but in no
sense red. A shade darker were the low, straight eyebrows which
crowned a pair of the coolest, clearest grey eyes in the world—eyes
that looked at you so steadily and calmly that you felt instinctively:
“lying is going to be an uncomfortable job here.” For classic
loveliness her chin was perhaps a thought too firm, her lips not quite
full enough, but when she smiled there was a bewitching droop at the
corners of her mouth that relieved it of any suspicion of hardness.
Altogether it was a face that not only caught your eye but took your
heart and gave it a little shake each time you looked at it.
“Mr. Ryland told you he’d be in to dinner, didn’t he, Golpin?”
The pale smooth-faced butler, who was making mysterious passes over a
tea-table with a pair of over-fed hands, indicated in a gentle
falsetto that such was indeed the case.
“We shall be four altogether; Miss Jerrand is coming. Oh, I say, take
that ghastly green cake away and bring some honey and a loaf of brown
bread, etc. I’m hungry. And you’d better tell Mr. Mangane that tea’s
ready—not that he’s likely to want any.”
But in this respect Inez appeared to be wrong. She had hardly helped
herself to butter, honey, and a thick slice of brown bread when the
door opened and her father’s secretary walked into the room. Laurence
Mangane had only taken up the post a month or so ago and as he did not
as a rule dine with the family—Sir Garth liked to be really alone when
he was not entertaining—Inez had seen very little of him. He seemed
presentable enough, she thought, as he walked quietly across the room
and dropped into a chair beside her. He was rather tall and dark, with
a thin black moustache that followed the line of his upper lip in the
modern heroic manner.
“Afternoon, Mr. Mangane. Strong, weak, sugar, milk? I thought you
didn’t like tea.”
“I don’t. Weak, sugar, no milk, please.”
Inez’s hand, waving the Queen Anne teapot, paused above a pale-green
cup.
“If you don’t like it, why on earth do you . . . ?”
Mangane smiled.
“Because I want some tea,” he said.
Inez looked at him for a moment, the shadow of a frown flickering
across her face. Then, with a shrug:
“Distinction’s a bit too subtle for me. Anyhow, help yourself. Is
father being kind to you?”
“He’s being wonderfully patient. It must be infernally trying to a
busy man to have to explain what he’s talking about.”
“But you’ve had financial training, haven’t you? Father said you’d
been with Sir John Kinnick. I thought you probably knew all about it.”
“I thought so too; it’s been a thoroughly healthy and humiliating
experience for me to realize that I don’t. Your father’s in a class by
himself, so far as my experience has taken me up to now. He sees
things from an entirely different point of view—a sort of financial
fourth dimension.”
Appreciation of her father, if Mangane had known it—and perhaps he did
at least guess—was the surest way to win Inez’s own approval. It was
quite evident that she regarded her father with anything but the
tolerant contempt which many of her contemporaries thought it amusing
to adopt towards their parents. Sir Garth was a man whom it was
possible, and even reasonable, to admire, even if he did happen to be
one’s own father. Playing upon this easy string, Mangane had no
difficulty in justifying his self-sacrifice in the matter of
tea-drinking. He was even contemplating another cup when the spell was
broken by the abrupt appearance of a Third Player. The door into the
hall opened suddenly and a young man slipped into the room, closing
the door behind him with exaggerated silence.
“Ry!” exclaimed Inez. “What on earth are you trying to do?”
Ryland tip-toed across the room with long strides and whispered
hoarsely in his sister’s ear.
“Is the Old Gentleman, your father, to house, maiden?”
“No, you idiot; of course he isn’t at this time of night. He does some
work.”
“Cruel, fair. But, oh Lord, I breathe again. A bowl of milk or I die.”
Ryland slid into the big chair beside his sister and with one arm
squeezed her to him. Mangane, watching in some amazement, had
difficulty in repressing a stab of jealousy at sight of the flush of
pleasure on the girl’s face. Presumably, this must be Ryland Fratten,
her half-brother; there was nothing to worry about.
“Ry, have you met Mr. Mangane? This is my brother, Mr. Mangane.”
“Steady. Half-brother; give the devil his due.”
Mangane nodded in acknowledgment of the introduction, but Ryland
struggled to his feet, walked round the tea-table, and held out his
hand.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said. “You’re obviously human. Dune was
a machine—and I never found the right butter to put into it. I want
all the human beings I can get at headquarters.”
The charm of his smile, rather than the flippant words, melted the
slight chill in the secretary’s manner and for a few minutes he
remained talking to Inez, while Ryland sat on the sofa, eating
chocolate cake and muttering to himself.
“Mangane. Permangane. What play does that remind me of? Oh, I know:
_Potash and Perlmutter_.”
Mangane laughed and rose to his feet.
“You’ve been studying Mr. Pelman,” he said. “Well, I must go and earn
my keep. Thank you so much, Miss Fratten.”
When he had gone, Inez turned to her brother.
“Anything the matter?” she asked.
He was silent for a minute, staring at the fire. He looked very slim
and young in his well-cut blue suit, but there were dark shadows under
his eyes and his skin did not look healthy.
“Why do you ask that?” he said at last.
“Why are you dining here tonight?”
“Is it as bad as all that?—Do I only dine here when something’s the
matter?”
She nodded.
“That’s about what it amounts to.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he agreed with a sigh. “And so there
is—something the matter.”
“What?” asked Inez, with her accustomed directness. Before he could
answer the butler appeared, saying that Mr. Hessel would like to see
Miss Fratten if she was not engaged.
“Plagues of his Israel!” muttered Ryland angrily. “Who wouldn’t be a
Pharaoh?—only I’d have done the job thoroughly.”
Inez glared at him and told Golpin to show Mr. Hessel in. Fortunately
for Ryland there was no time for her to tell him what she evidently
thought of him before Hessel appeared in the doorway. With a sulky
scowl on his face, Ryland muttered some sort of greeting and was about
to edge his way out of the room when Hessel stopped him.
“Don’t go, Ryland,” he said. “I’d like you to hear what I’ve got to
say, as well as Inez.”
With none too good a grace Ryland complied. Inez, with unerring
instinct, went straight to the point.
“Is anything the matter with father?”
Hessel nodded.
“It’s about that—no, no, my dear, there’s nothing immediately
serious,” he interposed hurriedly, seeing the look of almost terrified
anxiety on the girl’s face. “He’s quite all right. But something
serious _will_ happen if you don’t both help me. How much has he told
you about himself?”
“Nothing,” said Inez. “What do you mean? Tell me quickly please.”
“Hasn’t he told you that his doctor has reported badly on his heart?”
“No, not a word. Is it—is he dangerously ill?”
“Not immediately, no. But he will have to take great care. Surely he
must have told you he was giving up a lot of his work?”
“Yes, he did,” replied Inez. “But he said it was because he thought
he’d earned a little peace and quiet.”
“I see. So you really know nothing. I suppose I’m betraying a
confidence, but you’ve got to know now. His heart is in a really bad
condition—I don’t know the technical terms, but it is a case of
disease. His doctor has told him definitely that he must avoid all
strain or undue excitement. Now what do you think he’s done? He’s
promised, or practically promised, some ridiculous school friend to go
into a gimcrack business with him that will bother him and upset him
and do more harm than all the safe, well-oiled work he’s giving up.”
Hessel proceeded to outline the conversation he had had with Sir Garth
that afternoon. Inez listened with close attention, occasionally
asking a question that showed the clearness of her intellect. Ryland
remained silent, but there was a look of uneasiness on his face that
first puzzled and then comforted Inez. In spite of all the hard things
that he said about their father, she felt that her brother really
loved him and that this look of anxiety revealed the true state of his
feelings.
“That’s all serious enough,” continued Hessel. “But something that
happened this afternoon makes it worse. He had a shock—a motor-bicycle
nearly knocked him over—and he had a bad heart attack. I tried to make
him come straight home but he wouldn’t—he was as obstinate as a
mule—said he must go to a Hospital Board meeting, though he’d come
home afterwards. He ought to be back at any time; I wanted to see you
first. Take care of him, Inez,—and you too, Ryland. Don’t let him
worry; we simply can’t spare him. Above all stop this madcap Lorne
scheme.”
He stopped and looked questioningly at Inez, who nodded.
“We’ll take care of him, Uncle Leo,” she said. “Don’t you worry. Won’t
we, Ry?”
But Ryland was sitting with a very white face, glaring at his toes.
“What is it, Ry?” asked Inez, slipping on to the sofa beside him and
putting her arm round his neck. “Don’t get upset, old man. He’ll be
all right if we take care of him.”
Ryland shook himself and looked at her strangely.
“I’m afraid I . . . I wrote to him last night . . . It’ll upset him if
he reads it now . . . I wonder if I can get hold of the letter. . . .”
But once more Golpin, like a figure of fate, appeared in the doorway.
“Sir Garth wishes to see you in his study, Mr. Ryland.”
Ryland rose to his feet and walked slowly to the door. Inez rose as if
to follow him, but stopped.
“Ry,” she said, her hand making a slight movement as if of appeal. “Be
careful.”
Her brother glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh, I’ll be careful right enough,” he answered. “I can’t answer for
the old man. This means a flogging,” he added, with a feeble attempt
at humour.
The door closed behind him and Inez turned to Hessel.
“I can’t stop them,” she said. “They’re both as obstinate as pigs. I
do wish they got on better.”
“I told your father today that I thought he was hard on Ryland,” said
Hessel, “but I suppose he is rather trying in some ways.”
“Oh, he’s rather a young ass, of course. Stage doors, night-clubs, and
that kind of thing. As a matter of fact he is really rather keen on
the stage himself, apart from its inhabitants; he’s a jolly good
actor. I sometimes wish he’d take it up as a profession; good hard
work is what he wants more than anything else. He’s perfectly sound
really you know; he’s not a rotter.”
“I’m sure he isn’t, my dear,” said Hessel, patting Inez on the
shoulder. “And he’s a lucky young man to have a sister like you to
fight his battles. Well, I must be going; I ran away early from school
to come and talk to you and I must go and do some overtime now to make
up for it. Besides, I don’t want your father to catch me here telling
tales.”
When he had gone, Inez sat for a few minutes in gloomy silence, then
jumped up, shook herself and turned on the loud-speaker. A jazz-band
was playing ‘When father turned the baby upside down’ and Inez danced
a few steps to its lilting tune. Suddenly, through stutter of drums
and moan of saxophones, Inez heard the front door close with a crash.
She stopped for a moment, as if hesitating what to do, then flew to
the window and flung it open. Twenty yards down the street she saw the
retreating figure of her brother.
“Ry,” she called. “Ry, come back.”
But Ryland, if he heard, took no notice; she saw him hail a taxi, jump
into it and drive away. For a moment she hung out of the window,
watching till the cab whisked round a corner out of sight; then turned
forlornly back into the room.
“_So father kissed his baby on its other little cheek_ . . .” yelled
the jazz soloist.
Inez picked up a book and hurled it at the loud-speaker. “Oh, shut up,
you filthy fool,” she cried.
The instrument crashed to the floor and was still; Inez flung herself
on the sofa and buried her face in her arms.