“How will this do?” he demanded. “Agony Column of _The Times. Unless
owner of valuable closed car receives an abject apology from each of the
occupants of the coupé which at a moment when they were_ OTHERWISE
ENGAGED _was driven across his path, thereby almost occasioning a
serious accident, he will publish the time and place at which the
incident occurred, together with the number of the offending car._”
Virginia Peruke sat up, with a mischievous light in her eyes.
“I should simply love,” she said, “to see his apology. And yet,” she
continued gently, “I should hate him to be all upset. You see, if ever
he’s worried he always comes to me. And he couldn’t come to me about
this. And—and I should feel awfully guilty and dreadfully mean.”
“I don’t want her to come unbuttoned,” said Roger musingly. “I couldn’t
bear that. But I’m out to stop the rot—without involvin’ ourselves.”
Virginia interlaced ten rosy fingers.
“I don’t quite know what I want,” she said, as though thinking aloud.
“Yes, I do. I want Derry back—terribly. Yet I want him to be
smacked—not hard, just enough to sting. But I couldn’t enjoy his
smacking unless I was smacked too. Can you ever begin to understand? You
see, we ought to be involved—if justice is to be done.”
“That’s right,” said Roger. “You’ve assaulted the nail. My tail ought to
be twisted, but not by Rosemary. Rosemary ought to be gingered but not
by me. What we all want is a public executioner.”
Virginia nodded.
“That’s the idea,” she said. “Someone to clear the air. I don’t think
we’ll need that notice. Any way, to-morrow we’ll know. And if this
affair’s going strong, you can shove it in. But I don’t believe it is.
If I love an’ cherish Derry, I think he’ll come back. And Rosemary too.
What’s beginning to break my heart is that _things won’t be the same_.
I’d jump at a general confession, but if they didn’t join in, it’d only
make matters worse. If only something would happen to clear the air.”
“The god in the car,” said Roger, nodding his head. “That’s the wallah
we want. You know. The Greeks were poets all right, but they couldn’t
write plays. They could mess up their characters’ lives, but when the
time came they couldn’t straighten them out. And as it was a case—the
audience bein’ strict—of a small hemlock or a happy endin’, in the last
act they always roped in a god on board a truck who made the garden
lovely before bringin’ the curtain down.”
This admirable exposition was rudely received.
“In fact,” said Virginia fiercely, “your wretched god in the car is
about as much use to us as a witch in a fairy-tale. Upon my soul, what
an idiot a man can be. I ask for ideas; and you hand me a lot of wash
about——”
“You said we wanted something to clear the air. I only corroborated——”
“Who wants corroboration? Do you? I know I don’t. Do pull yourself
together and try and think. It’ll seem strange at first, of
course—using your brain. But you can sleep it off.”