“What ho, Angela, old girl.”
“Hullo, Bertie, darling.”
“Glad you’re back at last. I missed you.”
“Did you, darling?”
“I did, indeed. Care to come for a saunter?”
“I’d love it.”
“Fine. I have much to say to you that is not for the public ear.”
I think at this moment poor old Tuppy must have got a sudden touch of
cramp. He had been sitting hard by, staring at the ceiling, and he
now gave a sharp leap like a gaffed salmon and upset a small table
containing a vase, a bowl of potpourri, two china dogs, and a copy of
Omar Khayyám bound in limp leather.
Aunt Dahlia uttered a startled hunting cry. Uncle Tom, who probably
imagined from the noise that this was civilization crashing at last,
helped things along by breaking a coffee-cup.
Tuppy said he was sorry. Aunt Dahlia, with a deathbed groan, said
it didn’t matter. And Angela, having stared haughtily for a moment
like a princess of the old régime confronted by some notable example
of gaucherie on the part of some particularly foul member of the
underworld, accompanied me across the threshold. And presently I had
deposited her and self on one of the rustic benches in the garden, and
was ready to snap into the business of the evening.
I considered it best, however, before doing so, to ease things along
with a little informal chitchat. You don’t want to rush a delicate job
like the one I had in hand. And so for a while we spoke of neutral
topics. She said that what had kept her so long at the Stretchley-Budds
was that Hilda Stretchley-Budd had made her stop on and help with the
arrangements for their servants’ ball tomorrow night, a task which she
couldn’t very well decline, as all the Brinkley Court domestic staff
were to be present. I said that a jolly night’s revelry might be just
what was needed to cheer Anatole up and take his mind off things. To
which she replied that Anatole wasn’t going. On being urged to do so by
Aunt Dahlia, she said, he had merely shaken his head sadly and gone on
talking of returning to Provence, where he was appreciated.
It was after the sombre silence induced by this statement that Angela
said the grass was wet and she thought she would go in.
This, of course, was entirely foreign to my policy.
“No, don’t do that. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since you
arrived.”
“I shall ruin my shoes.”
“Put your feet up on my lap.”
“All right. And you can tickle my ankles.”
“Quite.”
Matters were accordingly arranged on these lines, and for some minutes
we continued chatting in desultory fashion. Then the conversation
petered out. I made a few observations _in re_ the scenic effects,
featuring the twilight hush, the peeping stars, and the soft glimmer
of the waters of the lake, and she said yes. Something rustled in the
bushes in front of us, and I advanced the theory that it was possibly
a weasel, and she said it might be. But it was plain that the girl was
distraite, and I considered it best to waste no more time.
“Well, old thing,” I said, “I’ve heard all about your little dust-up. So
those wedding bells are not going to ring out, what?”
“No.”
“Definitely over, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you want my opinion, I think that’s a bit of goose for you,
Angela, old girl. I think you’re extremely well out of it. It’s a
mystery to me how you stood this Glossop so long. Take him for all in
all, he ranks very low down among the wines and spirits. A washout, I
should describe him as. A frightful oik, and a mass of side to boot.
I’d pity the girl who was linked for life to a bargee like Tuppy
Glossop.”
And I emitted a hard laugh--one of the sneering kind.
“I always thought you were such friends,” said Angela.
I let go another hard one, with a bit more top spin on it than the
first time:
“Friends? Absolutely not. One was civil, of course, when one met the
fellow, but it would be absurd to say one was a friend of his. A club
acquaintance, and a mere one at that. And then one was at school with
the man.”
“At Eton?”
“Good heavens, no. We wouldn’t have a fellow like that at Eton. At
a kid’s school before I went there. A grubby little brute he was,
I recollect. Covered with ink and mire generally, washing only on
alternate Thursdays. In short, a notable outsider, shunned by all.”
I paused. I was more than a bit perturbed. Apart from the agony of
having to talk in this fashion of one who, except when he was looping
back rings and causing me to plunge into swimming baths in correct
evening costume, had always been a very dear and esteemed crony, I
didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Business was not resulting. Staring
into the bushes without a yip, she appeared to be bearing these slurs
and innuendos of mine with an easy calm.