"The bath is ready, my lord."
Lord Peter Bowen opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge that another day had dawned. He stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously. For the next few moments he lay watching his man, Peel, as he moved noiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether such precision and self-repression were natural or acquired.
To Bowen Peel was a source of never-ending interest. No matter at what hour Bowen had seen him, Peel always appeared as if he had just shaved. In his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governed by one law—order. He was noiseless, wordless, selfless. Bowen was convinced that were he to die suddenly and someone chance to call, Peel would merely say: "His Lordship is not at home, sir."
Thin of face, small of stature, precise of movement, Peel possessed the individuality of negation. He looked nothing in particular, seemed nothing in particular, did everything to perfection. His face was a barrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to the curious: he betrayed neither emotion nor confidence. In short he was the most perfect gentleman's servant in existence.
"What's the time, Peel?" enquired Bowen.
"Seven forty-three, my lord," replied the meticulous Peel, glancing at the clock on the mantel-piece.
"Have I any engagements to-day?" queried his master.
"No, my lord. You have refused to make any since last Thursday morning."
Then Bowen remembered. He had pleaded pressure at the War Office as an excuse for declining all invitations. He was determined that nothing should interfere with his seeing Patricia should she unbend. With the thought of Patricia returned the memory of the previous night's events. Bowen cursed himself for the mess he had made of things. Every act of his had seemed to result only in one thing, the angering of Patricia. Even then things might have gone well if it had not been for his wretched bad luck in being the son of a peer.
As he lay watching Peel, Bowen felt in a mood to condole with himself. Confound it! Surely it could not be urged against him as his fault that he had a wretched title. He had been given no say in the matter. As for telling Patricia, could he immediately on meeting her blurt out, "I'm a lord?" Supposing he had introduced himself as "Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Peter Bowen." How ridiculous it would have sounded. He had come to hate the very sound of the word "lord."
"It's ten minutes to eight, my lord."
It was Peel's voice that broke in upon his reflections.
"Oh, damn!" cried Bowen as he threw his legs out of bed and sat looking at Peel.
"I beg pardon, my lord?"
"I said damn!" replied Bowen.
"Yes, my lord."
Bowen regarded Peel narrowly. He was confoundedly irritating this morning. He seemed to be my-lording his master specially to annoy him. There was, however, no sign upon Peel's features or in his watery blue eyes indicating that he was other than in his normal frame of mind.
Why couldn't Patricia be sensible? Why must she take up this absurd attitude, contorting every action of his into a covert insult? Why above all things couldn't women be reasonable? Bowen rose, stretched himself and walked across to the bath-room. As he was about to enter he looked over his shoulder.
"If," he said, "you can arrange to remind me of my infernal title as little as possible during the next few days, Peel, I shall feel infinitely obliged."
"Yes, my lord," was the response.
Bowen banged the door savagely, and Peel rang to order breakfast.
During the meal Bowen pondered over the events of the previous evening, and in particular over Patricia's unreasonableness. His one source of comfort was that she had appealed to him to put things right about her aunt. That would involve his seeing her again. He did not, or would not, see that he was the only one to whom she could appeal.
Bowen always breakfasted in his own sitting-room; he disliked his fellow-men in the early morning. Looking up suddenly from the table he caught Peel's expressionless eye upon him.
"Peel."
"Yes, my lord."
"Why is it that we Englishmen dislike each other so at breakfast?"
Peel paused for a moment. "I've heard it said, my lord, that we're half an inch taller in the morning, perhaps our perceptions are more acute also."
Bowen looked at Peel curiously.
"You're a philosopher," he said, "and I'm afraid a bit of a cynic."
"I hope not, my lord," responded Peel.
Bowen pushed back his chair and rose, receiving from Peel his cap, cane, and gloves.
"By the way," he said, "I want you to ring up Lady Tanagra and ask her to lunch with me at half-past one. Tell her it's very important, and ask her not to fail me."
"Yes, my lord: it shall be attended to."
Bowen went out. Lady Tanagra was Bowen's only sister. As children they had been inseparable, forced into an alliance by the overbearing nature of their elder brother, the heir, Viscount Bowen, who would succeed to the title as the eighth Marquess of Meyfield. Bowen was five years older than his sister, who had just passed her twenty-third birthday and, as a frail sensitive child, she had instinctively looked to him for protection against her elder brother.
Their comradeship was that of mutual understanding. For one to say to the other, "Don't fail me," meant that any engagement, however pressing, would be put off. There was a tacit acknowledgment that their comradeship stood before all else. Each to the other was unique. Thus when Bowen sent the message to Lady Tanagra through Peel asking her not to fail him, he knew that she would keep the appointment. He knew equally well that it would involve her in the breaking of some other engagement, for there were few girls in London so popular as Lady Tanagra Bowen.
Whenever there was an important social function, Lady Tanagra Bowen was sure to be there, and it was equally certain that the photographers of the illustrated and society papers would so manoeuvre that she came into the particular group, or groups, they were taking.
The seventh Marquess of Meyfield was an enthusiastic collector of Tanagra figurines and, overruling his lady's protestations, he had determined to call his first and only daughter Tanagra. Lady Meyfield had begged for a second name; but the Marquess had been resolute. "Tanagra I will have her christened and Tanagra I will have her called," he had said with a smile that, if it mitigated the sternness of his expression, did not in my way undermine his determination. Lady Meyfield knew her lord, and also that her only chance of ruling him was by showing unfailing tact. She therefore bowed to his decision.
"Poor child!" she had remarked as she looked down at the frail little mite in the hollow of her arm, "you're certainly going to be made ridiculous; but I've done my best," and Lord Meyfield had come across the room and kissed his wife with the remark, "There you're wrong, my dear, it's going to help to make her a great success. Imagine, the Lady Tanagra Bowen; why it would make a celebrity of the most commonplace female," whereat they had both smiled.
As a child Lady Tanagra had been teased unmercifully about her name, so much so that she had almost hated it; but later when she had come to love the figurines that were so much part of her father's life, she had learned, not only to respect, but to be proud of the name.
To her friends and intimates she was always Tan, to the less intimate Lady Tan, and to the world at large Lady Tanagra Bowen.
She had once found the name extremely useful, when in process of being proposed to by an undesirable of the name of Black.
"It's no good," she had said, "I could never marry you, no matter what the state of my feelings. Think how ridiculous we should both be, everybody would call us Black and Tan. Ugh! it sounds like a whisky as well as a dog." Whereat Mr. Black had laughed and they remained friends, which was a great tribute to Lady Tanagra.
Exquisitely pretty, sympathetic, witty, human! Lady Tanagra Bowen was a favourite wherever she went. She seemed incapable of making enemies even amongst her own sex. Her taste in dress was as unerring as in literature and art. Everything she did or said was without effort. She had been proposed to by "half the eligibles and all the ineligibles in London," as Bowen phrased it; but she declared she would never marry until Peter married, and had thus got somebody else to mother him.
At a quarter-past one when Bowen left the War Office, he found Lady Tanagra waiting in her car outside.
"Hullo, Tan!" he cried, "what a brainy idea, picking up the poor, tired warrior."
"It'll save you a taxi, Peter. I'll tell you what to do with the shilling as we go along."
Lady Tanagra smiled up into her brother's face. She was always happy with Peter.
As she swung the car across Whitehall to get into the north-bound stream of traffic, Bowen looked down at his sister. She handled her big car with dexterity and ease. She was a dainty creature with regular features, violet-blue eyes and golden hair that seemed to defy all constraint. There was a tilt about her chin that showed determination, and that about her eyebrows which suggested something more than good judgment.
"I hope you weren't doing anything to-day, Tan," said Bowen as they came to a standstill at the top of Whitehall, waiting for the removal of a blue arm that barred their progress.
"I was lunching with the Bolsovers; but I'm not well enough, I'm afraid, to see them. It's measles, you know."
"Good heavens, Tan! what do you mean?"
"Well, I had to say something that would be regarded as a sufficient excuse for breaking a luncheon engagement of three weeks' standing. Quite a lot of people were invited to meet me."
"I'm awfully sorry," began Bowen apologetically.
"Oh, it's all right!" was the reply as the car jumped forward. "I shall be deluged with fruit and flowers now from all sorts of people, because the Bolsovers are sure to spread it round that I'm in extremis. To-morrow, however, I shall announce that it was a wrong diagnosis."
Lady Tanagra drew the car up to the curb outside Dent's. "I think," she said, indicating an old woman selling matches, "we'll give her the shilling for the taxi, Peter, shall we?"
Peter beckoned the old woman and handed her a shilling with a smile.
"Does it make you feel particularly virtuous to be charitable with another's money?" he enquired.
Lady Tanagra made a grimace.
Over lunch they talked upon general topics and about common friends. Lady Tanagra made no reference to the important matter that had caused her to be summoned to lunch, even at the expense of having measles as an excuse. That was characteristic of her. She had nothing of a woman's curiosity, at least she never showed it, particularly with Peter.
After lunch they went to the lounge for coffee. When they had been served and both were smoking, Bowen remarked casually, "Got any engagement for this afternoon, Tan?"
"Tea at the Carlton at half-past four, then I promised to run in to see the Grahams before dinner. I'm afraid it will mean more flowers and fruit. Oh!" she replied, "I suppose I must stick to measles. I shall have to buy some thanks for kind enquiries cards as I go home."
During lunch Bowen had been wondering how he could approach the subject of Patricia. He could not tell even Tanagra how he had met her—that was Patricia's secret. If she chose to tell, that was another matter; but he could not. As a rule he found it easy to talk to Tanagra and explain things; but this was a little unusual. Lady Tanagra watched him shrewdly for a minute or two.
"I think I should just say it as it comes, Peter," she remarked in a casual, matter-of-fact tone.
Bowen started and then laughed.
"What I want is a sponsor for an acquaintanceship between myself and a girl. I cannot tell you everything, Tan, she may decide to; but of course you know it's all right."
"Why, of course," broke in Lady Tanagra with an air of conviction which contained something of a reproach that he should have thought it necessary to mention such a thing.
"Well, you've got to do a bit of lying, too, I'm afraid."
"Oh! that will be all right. The natural consequence of a high temperature through measles." Lady Tanagra saw that Bowen was ill at ease, and sought by her lightness to simplify things for him.
"How long have I known her?" she proceeded.
"Oh! that you had better settle with her. All that is necessary is for you to have met her somewhere, or somehow, and to have introduced me to her."
"And who is to receive these explanations?" enquired Lady Tanagra.
"Her aunt, a gorgon."
"Does the girl know that you are—that I am to throw myself into the breach?"
"No," said Peter, "I didn't think to tell her. I said that I would arrange things. Her name's Patricia Brent. She's private secretary to Arthur Bonsor of 426 Eaton Square, and she lives at Galvin House Residential Hotel, to give it its full title, 8 Galvin Street, Bayswater. Her aunt is to be at Galvin House at half-past five this afternoon, when I have to be explained to her. Oh! it's most devilish awkward, Tan, because I can't tell you the facts of the case. I wish she were here."
"That's all right, Peter. I'll put things right. What time does she leave Eaton Square?"
"Five o'clock, I think."
"Good! leave it to me. By the way, where shall you be if I want to get at you?"
"When?"
"Say six o'clock."
"I'll be back here at six and wait until seven."
"That will do. Now I really must be going. I've got to telephone to these people about the measles. Shall I run you down to Whitehall?"
"No, thanks, I think I'll walk," and with that he saw her into her car and turned to walk back to Whitehall, thanking his stars for being possessed of such a sister and marvelling at her wisdom. He had not the most remote idea of how she would achieve her purpose; but achieve it he was convinced she would. It was notorious that Lady Tanagra never failed in anything she undertook.
While Bowen and his sister were lunching at the Quadrant, Patricia was endeavouring to concentrate her mind upon her work. "The egregious Arthur," as she called him to herself in her more impatient moments, had been very trying that morning. He had been in a particularly indeterminate mood, which involved the altering and changing of almost every sentence he dictated. In the usual way he was content to tell Patricia what he wanted to say, and let her clothe it in fitting words; but this morning he had insisted on dictating every letter, with the result that her notes had become hopelessly involved and she was experiencing great difficulty in reading them. Added to this was the fact that she could not keep her thoughts from straying to Aunt Adelaide. What would happen that afternoon? What was Bowen going to do to save the situation? He had promised to see her through; but how was he going to do it?
At a quarter to five Patricia left the library to go upstairs to put on her hat and coat. In the hall she encountered Mrs. Bonsor.
"Finished?" interrogated that lady in a tone of voice that implied she was perfectly well aware of the fact that it wanted still a quarter of an hour to the time at which Patricia was supposed to be free.
"No; there is still some left; but I'm going home," said Patricia. There was something in her voice and appearance that prompted Mrs. Bonsor to smile her artificial smile and remark that she thought Patricia was quite right, the weather being very trying.
When she left the Bonsors' house, Patricia was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the large grey car standing a few yards up the square with a girl at the steering-wheel. Patricia turned in the opposite direction from that in which the car stood, making her way towards Sloane Street to get her bus. She had not gone many steps when the big car slid silently up beside her, and she heard a voice say, "Can't I give you a lift to Galvin House?"
She turned round and saw a fair-haired girl smiling at her from the car.
"I—I——"
"Jump in, won't you?" said the girl.
"But—but I think you've made a mistake."
"You're Patricia Brent, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Patricia, smiling, "that's my name."
"Well then, jump in and I'll run you up to Galvin House. Don't delay or you'll be too late for your aunt."
Patricia looked at the girl in mute astonishment, but proceeded to get into the car, there seemed nothing else to be done. As she did so, the fair-haired girl laughed brightly. "It's awfully mean of me to take such an advantage, but I couldn't resist it. I'm Peter's sister, Tanagra."
"Oh!" said Patricia, light dawning upon her and turning to Tanagra with a smile, "Then you're the solution?"
"Yes," said Lady Tanagra, "I'm going to see you two out of the mess you've somehow or other got into."
Suddenly Patricia stiffened. "Did he—did he—er—tell you?"
"Not he," said Lady Tanagra, shoving on the brake suddenly to avoid a crawling taxi that had swung round without any warning. "Peter doesn't talk."
"But then, how do you——?"
"Well," said Lady Tanagra, "he told me that I was to be the one who had introduced him to you and explain him to your aunt. It's all over London that I've got measles, and there will be simply piles of flowers and fruit arriving at Grosvenor Square by every possible conveyance."
"Measles!" cried Patricia uncomprehendingly.
"Yes, you see when Peter wants me I always have to throw up any sort of engagement, and he does the same for me. When he asked me to lunch with him to-day and said it was important, I had to give some reasonable excuse to three lots of people to whom I had pledged myself, and I thought measles would do quite nicely."
Patricia laughed in spite of herself.
"So you don't know anything except that you have got to——"
"Sponsor you," interrupted Lady Tanagra.
For some time Patricia was silent. She felt she could tell her story to this girl who was so trustful that everything was all right, and who was willing to do anything to help her brother.
"Can't we go slowly whilst I talk to you," said Patricia, as they turned into the Park.
"We'll do better than that," said Lady Tanagra, "we'll stop and sit down for five minutes." She pulled up the car near the Stanhope Gate and they found a quiet spot under a tree.
"I cannot allow you to enter into this affair," said Patricia, "without telling you the whole story. What you will think of me afterwards I don't know; but I've got myself into a most horrible mess."
She then proceeded to explain the whole situation, how it came about that she had come to know Bowen and the upshot of the meeting. Lady Tanagra listened without interruption and without betraying by her expression what were her thoughts.
"And now what do you think of me?" demanded Patricia when she had concluded.
For a moment Lady Tanagra rested her hand upon Patricia's. "I think, you goose, that had you known Peter better there would not have been so much need for you to worry; but there isn't much time and we've got to prepare. Now listen carefully. First of all you must call me Tan or Tanagra, and I must call you Patricia or Pat, or whatever you like. Secondly, as it would take too long to find out if we've got any friends in common, you went to the V.A.D. Depot in St. George's Crescent to see if you could do anything to help. There you met me. I'm quite a shining light there, by the way, and we palled up. This led to my introducing Peter and—well all the rest is quite easy."
"But—but there isn't any rest," said Patricia. "Don't you see how horribly awkward it is? I'm supposed to be engaged to him."
"Oh!" said Lady Tanagra quietly, "that's a matter for you and Peter to settle between you. I'm afraid I can't interfere there. All I can do is to explain how you and he came to know each other; and now we had better be getting on as your aunt will not be pleased if you keep her waiting. What I propose to do is to pick her up and take her up to the Quadrant where we shall find Peter."
"But," protested Patricia, "that's simply getting us more involved than ever."
"Well, I'm afraid it's got to be," said Lady Tanagra, smiling mischievously; "it's much better that they should meet at the Quadrant than at Galvin House, where you say everybody is so catty."
Patricia saw the force of Lady Tanagra's argument, and they were soon whirling on their way towards Galvin House. She wanted to pinch herself to be quite sure that she was not dreaming. Everything seemed to be happening with such rapidity that her brain refused to keep pace with events. Why had she not met these people in a conventional way so that she might preserve their friendship? It was hard luck, she told herself.
"Would you mind telling me what you propose doing?" enquired Patricia.
"I promised Peter to gather up the pieces," was the response. "All you've got to do is to remain quiet."
Lady Tanagra brought the car up in front of Galvin House with a magnificent sweep. Gustave, who had been on the watch, swung open the door in his most impressive manner.
As Patricia and Lady Tanagra entered the lounge, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe were addressing pleasantries to a particularly grim Miss Brent.
"Oh, here you are!" Miss Brent's exclamation was uttered in such a voice as to pierce even the thick skin of Miss Wangle, who having instantly recognised Lady Tanagra, retired with Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe a few yards, where they carried on a whispered conversation, casting significant glances at Lady Tanagra, Miss Brent and Patricia.
"I told Patricia that it was time the families met," said Lady Tanagra, "and so I insisted on coming when I heard you were to be here."
"I think you are quite right."
Patricia was surprised at the change in her aunt. Much of her usual uncompromising downrightness had been shed, and she appeared almost gracious. For one thing she was greatly impressed at the thought that Patricia was to become Lady Peter Bowen. As the aunt of Lady Peter Bowen, Miss Brent saw that her own social position would be considerably improved. She saw herself taking precedence at Little Milstead and issuing its social life and death warrants. Apart from these considerations Miss Brent was not indifferent to Lady Tanagra's personal charm.
"Tan's parlour tricks," as Godfrey Elton called them, were notorious. Everyone was aware of their existence; yet everyone fell an instant victim. A compound of earnestness, deference, pleading, irresistible impertinence and dignity, they formed a dangerous weapon.
Lady Tanagra's position among her friends and acquaintance was unique. When difficulties and contentions arose, the parties' instinctive impulse was to endeavour to invest her interest. "Tanagra is so sensible," outraged parenthood would exclaim; "Tan's such a sport. She'll understand," cried rebellious youth. People not only asked Lady Tanagra's advice, but took it. The secret of her success, unknown to herself, was her knowledge of human nature. Even those against whom she gave her decisions bore her no ill-will.
Her manner towards Miss Brent was a mixture of laughter and seriousness, with deft little touches of deference.
"I've come to apologize for everybody and everything, Miss Brent," she cried; "but in particular for myself." Lady Tanagra chatted on gaily, "sparring for an opening," Elton called it.
"You mustn't blame Patricia," she bubbled in her soft musical voice, "it's all Peter's fault, and where it's not his fault it's mine," she proceeded illogically. "You won't be hard on us, will you?" She looked up at Miss Brent with the demureness of a child expecting severe rebuke for some naughtiness.
Miss Brent's eyes narrowed and the firm line of her lips widened. Patricia recognised this as the outward evidences of a smile.
"I confess, I am greatly puzzled," began Miss Brent.
"Of course you must be," continued Lady Tanagra, "and if you were not so kind you would be very cross, especially with me. Now," she continued, without giving Miss Brent a chance of replying, "I want you to do me a very great favour."
Lady Tanagra paused impressively, and gave Miss Brent her most pleading look.
Miss Brent looked at Lady Tanagra with just a tinge of suspicion in her pea-soup coloured eyes.
"May I ask what it is?" she enquired guardedly.
"I want you to let me carry you off to a quiet place where we can talk."
Miss Brent rose at once. She disliked Calvin House and the inquisitive glances of its inmates.
"I told Peter to be at the Quadrant until seven. He is very anxious to meet you," continued Lady Tanagra as they moved towards the door. "I would not let him come here as I thought, from that Patricia has told me, that you would not care—to——" She paused.
"You are quite right, Lady Tanagra," said Miss Brent with decision. "I do not like boarding-houses. They are not the places for the discussion of family affairs."
Patricia descended the steps of Galvin House, not quite sure whether this were reality or a dream. She watched Miss Brent seat herself beside Lady Tanagra, whilst she herself entered the tonneau of the car. As the door clicked and the car sprang forward, she caught a glimpse of eager faces at the windows of Galvin House.
As they swung into the Park and hummed along the even road, Patricia endeavoured to bring herself to earth. She pinched herself until it hurt. What had happened? She felt like someone present at her own funeral. Her fate was being decided without anyone seeming to think it necessary to consult her.
"By half-past five to-morrow afternoon I shall have found a solution." Bowen's words came back to her. He was right. Lady Tanagra was indeed a solution. Patricia and Miss Brent were merely lay-figures. It must be wonderful to be able to make people do what you wished, she mused. She wondered what would have happened had Bowen possessed his sister's powers.
At the Quadrant Peel was waiting in the vestibule. With a bow that impressed Miss Brent, he conducted them to Bowen's suite. As they entered Bowen sprang up from a writing-table. Patricia noticed that there was no smell of tobacco smoke. The Bowens were a wonderful family, she decided, remembering her aunt's prejudices.
"I have only just heard you were in town," she heard Bowen explaining to Miss Brent. "I rang up Patricia this morning, but she could not remember your address."
Patricia gasped; but, seeing the effect of the "grey lie" (it was not quite innocent enough to be called a white lie, she told herself) she forgave it.
During tea Lady Tanagra and Bowen set to to "play themselves in," as Lady Tanagra afterwards expressed it.
"Poor Aunt Adelaide," Patricia murmured to herself, "they'll turn her giddy young head."
"And now," Lady Tanagra began when Bowen had taken Miss Brent's cup from her. "I must explain all about this little romance and how it came about."
Patricia caught Bowen's eye, and saw in it a look of eager interest.
"Patricia wanted to do war work in her spare time," continued Lady Tanagra, "so she applied to the V.A.D. at St. George's Crescent. I am on the committee and, by a happy chance," Lady Tanagra smiled across to Patricia, "she was sent to me. I saw she was not strong and dissuaded her."
Miss Brent nodded approval.
"I explained," continued Lady Tanagra, "that the work was very hard, and that it was not necessarily patriotic to overwork so as to get ill. Doctors have quite enough to do."
Again Miss Brent nodded agreement.
"I think we liked each other from the first," again Lady Tanagra smiled across at Patricia, "and I asked her to come and have tea with me, and we became friends. Finally, one day when we were enjoying a quiet talk here in the lounge, this big brother of mine comes along and spoils everything." Lady Tanagra regarded Bowen with reproachful eyes.
"Spoiled everything?" enquired Miss Brent.
"Yes; by falling in love with my friend, and in a most treacherous manner she must do the same." Lady Tanagra's tone was matter-of-fact enough to deceive a misanthropist.
Patricia's cheeks burned and her eyes fell beneath the gaze of the others. She felt as a man might who reads his own obituary notices.
"And why was I not told, her sole surviving relative?" Miss Brent rapped out the question with the air of a counsel for the prosecution.
"That was my fault," broke in Bowen.
Three pairs of eyes were instantly turned upon him. Miss Brent suspicious, Lady Tanagra admiring, Patricia wondering.
"And why, may I ask?" enquired Miss Brent.
"I wanted it to be a secret between Patricia and me," explained Bowen easily.
"But, Lady Tanagra——" There was a note in Miss Brent's voice that Patricia recognised as a soldier does the gas-gong.
"Oh!" replied Bowen, "she finds out everything; but I only told her at lunch to-day."
"And he told me as if I had not already discovered the fact for myself," laughed Lady Tanagra.
"Patricia wanted to tell you," continued Bowen. "She has often talked of you (Patricia felt sure Aunt Adelaide must hear her start of surprise); but I wanted to wait until we could go to you together and confess." Bowen smiled straight into his listener's eyes, a quiet, friendly smile that would have disarmed a gorgon.
For a few moments there was silence. Miss Brent was thinking, thinking as a judge thinks who is about to deliver sentence.
"And Lady Meyfield, does she know?" she enquired.
Without giving Bowen a chance to reply Lady Tanagra rushed in as if fearful that he might make a false move.
"That is another of Peter's follies, keeping it from mother. He argued that if the engagement were officially announced, the family would take up all Patricia's time, and he would see nothing of her. Oh! Peter's very selfish sometimes, I am to say; but," she added with inspiration, "every thing will have to come out now."
"Of course!" Patricia started at the decision in Miss Brent's tone. She looked across at Bowen, who was regarding Lady Tanagra with an admiration that amounted almost to reverence. As he looked up Patricia's eyes fell. What was happening to her? She was getting further into the net woven by her own folly. Lady Tanagra was getting them out of the tangle into which they had got themselves; but was she not involving them in a worse? Patricia knew her aunt, Lady Tanagra did not. Therein lay the key to the whole situation.
Miss Brent rose to go. Patricia saw that judgment was to be deferred. She shook hands with Lady Tanagra and Bowen and, finally, turning to Patricia said:
"I think, Patricia, that you have been very indiscreet in not taking me into your confidence, your sole surviving relative," and with that she went, having refused Lady Tanagra's offer to drive her to her hotel, pleading that she had another call to make.
When Bowen returned from seeing Miss Brent into a taxi, the three culprits regarded each other. All felt that they had come under the ban of Miss Brent's displeasure. It was Lady Tanagra who broke the silence.
"Well, we're all in it now up to the neck," she laughed.
Bowen smiled happily; but Patricia looked alarmed. Lady Tanagra went over to her and bending down kissed her lightly on the cheek. Patricia looked up, and Bowen saw that her eyes were suspiciously moist. With a murmured apology about a note he was expecting he left the room.
That night the three dined at the Quadrant, "to get to know each other," as Lady Tanagra said. When Patricia reached Galvin House, having refused to allow Bowen to see her home, she was conscious of having spent another happy evening.
"Up to the neck in it," she murmured as she tossed back her hair and began to brush it for the night, "over the top of our heads, I should say."
Having become reconciled to what she regarded as Patricia's matrimonial plans, although strongly disapproving of her deplorable flippancy, Miss Brent decided that her niece's position must be established in the eyes of her prospective relatives-in-law.
Miss Brent was proud of her family, but still prouder of the fact that the founder had come over with that extremely dubious collection of notables introduced into England by William of Normandy. To Miss Brent, William the Conqueror was whatThe Mayfloweris to all ambitious Americans—a social jumping-off point. There were no army lists in 1066, or passengers' lists in 1620.
No one could say with any degree of certainty what it was that Geoffrey Brent did for, or knew about, his ducal master; but it was sufficiently important to gain for him a grant of lands, which he had no more right to occupy than the Norman had to bestow.
After careful thought Miss Brent had decided upon her line of operations. Geoffrey Brent was to be used as a corrective to Patricia's occupation. No family, Miss Brent argued, could be expected to welcome with open arms a girl who earned her living as the secretary of an unknown member of parliament. She foresaw complications, fierce opposition, possibly an attempt to break off the engagement. To defeat this Geoffrey Brent was to be disinterred and flung into the conflict, and Patricia was to owe to her aunt the happiness that was to be hers. Incidentally Miss Brent saw in this circumstance a very useful foundation upon which to build for herself a position in the future.
Miss Brent had made up her mind upon two points. One that she would call upon Lady Meyfield, the other that Patricia's engagement must be announced. Debrett told her all she wanted to know about the Bowens, and she strongly disapproved of what she termed "hole-in-the-corner engagements." The marriage of a Brent to a Bowen was to her an alliance, carrying with it certain social responsibilities, consequently Society must be advised of what was impending. Romance was a by-product that did not concern either Miss Brent or Society.
Purpose and decision were to Miss Brent what wings and tail are to the swallow: they propelled and directed her. Her mind once made up, to change it would have appeared to Miss Brent an unpardonable sign of weakness. Circumstances might alter, thrones totter, but Miss Brent's decisions would remain unshaken.
On the day following her meeting with Lady Tanagra and Bowen, Miss Brent did three things. She transferred to "The Mayfair Hotel" for one night, she prepared an announcement of the engagement forThe Morning Post, and she set out to call upon Lady Meyfield in Grosvenor Square.
The transference to "The Mayfair Hotel" served a double purpose. It would impress the people at the newspaper office, and it would also show that Patricia's kinswoman was of some importance.
As Patricia was tapping out upon a typewriter the halting eloquence of Mr. Arthur Bonsor, Miss Brent was being whirled in a taxi first to the office ofThe Morning Postand then on to Grosvenor Square.
"I fully appreciate," tapped Patricia with wandering attention, "the national importance of pigs."
"Miss Brent!" announced Lady Meyfield's butler.
Miss Brent found herself gazing into a pair of violet eyes that were smiling a greeting out of a gentle face framed in white hair.
"How do you do!" Lady Meyfield was endeavouring to recall where she could have met her caller.
"I felt it was time the families met," announced Miss Brent.
Lady Meyfield smiled, that gentle reluctant smile so characteristic of her. She was puzzled; but too well-bred to show it.
"Won't you have some tea?" She looked about her, then fixing her eyes upon a dark man in khaki, with smouldering eyes, called to him, introduced him, and had just time to say:
"Godfrey, see that Miss Brent has some tea," when a rush of callers swept Miss Brent and Captain Godfrey Elton further into the room.
Miss Brent looked about her with interest. She had read of how Lady Meyfield had turned her houses, both town and country, into convalescent homes for soldiers; but she was surprised to see men in hospital garb mixing freely with the other guests. Elton saw her surprise.
"Lady Meyfield has her own ideas of what is best," he remarked as he handed her a cup of tea.
Miss Brent looked up interrogatingly.
"She had some difficulty at first," continued Elton; "but eventually she got her own way as she always does. Now the official hospitals send her their most puzzling cases and she cures them."
"How?" enquired Miss Brent with interest.
"Imagination," said Elton, bowing to a pretty brunette at the other side of the room. "She is too wise to try and fatten a canary on a dog biscuit."
"Does she keep canaries then?" enquired Miss Brent.
"I'm afraid that was only my clumsy effort at metaphor," responded Elton with a disarming smile. "She adopts human methods. They are generally successful."
Elton went on to describe something of the success that had attended Lady Meyfield's hostels, as she called them. They were famous throughout the Service. When war broke out someone had suggested that she should use her tact and knowledge of human nature in treating cases that defied the army M.O.'s. "A tyrant is the first victim of tact," Godfrey Elton had said of Lord Meyfield, and in his ready acquiescence in his lady's plans Lord Meyfield had tacitly concurred.
Lady Meyfield had conferred with her lord in respect to all her plans and arrangements, until he had come to regard the hostels as the children of his own brain, admirably controlled and conducted by his wife. He seldom appeared, keeping to the one place free from the flood of red, white, and blue—his library. Here with his books and terra-cottas he "grew old with a grace worthy of his rank," as Elton phrased it.
Lady Meyfield's "cases" were mostly those of shell-shock, or nervous troubles. She studied each patient's needs, and decided whether he required diversion or quiet: if diversion, he was sent to her town house; if quiet, he went to one of her country houses.
At first it had been thought that a woman could not discipline a number of men; but Lady Meyfield had settled this by allowing them to discipline themselves. All misdemeanours were reported to and judged by a committee of five elected by ballot from among the patients. Their decisions were referred to Lady Meyfield for ratification. The result was that in no military hospital, or convalescent home, in the country was the discipline so good.
Miss Brent listened perfunctorily to Elton's description of Lady Meyfield's success. She had not come to Grosvenor Square to hear about hostels, or the curing of shell-shocked soldiers, and her eyes roved restlessly about the room.
"You know Lord Peter?" she enquired at length.
"Intimately," Elton replied as he took her cup from her.
"Do you like him?" Miss Brent was always direct.
"Unquestionably." Elton's tone was that of a man who found nothing unusual either in the matter or method of interrogation.
"Is he steady?" was the next question.
"As a rock," responded Elton, beginning to enjoy a novel experience.
"Why doesn't he live here?" demanded Miss Brent.
"Who, Peter?"
Miss Brent nodded.
"No room. The soldiers, you know," he added.
"No room for her own son?" Miss Brent's tone was in itself an accusation against Lady Meyfield of unnaturalness.
"Oh! Peter understands," was Elton's explanation.
"Oh!" Miss Brent looked sharply at him. For a minute there was silence.
"You have been wounded?" Miss Brent indicated the blue band upon his arm. Her question arose, not from any interest she felt; but she required time in which to reorganise her attack.
"I am only waiting for my final medical board, as I hope," Elton replied.
"You know Lady Tanagra?" Miss Brent was feeling some annoyance with this extremely self-possessed young man.
"Yes," was Elton's reply. He wondered if the next question would deal with her steadiness.
"I suppose you are a friend of the family?" was Miss Brent's next question.
Elton bowed.
"Good afternoon, sir." The speaker was a soldier in hospital blue, a rugged little man known among his fellows as "Uncle."
"Hullo! Uncle, how are you?" said Elton, shaking hands.
Miss Brent noticed a warmth in Elton's tone that was in marked contrast to the even tone of courtesy with which he had answered her questions.
"Oh, just 'oppin' on to 'eaven, sir," replied Uncle. "Sort of sittin' up an' takin' notice."
Elton introduced Uncle to Miss Brent, an act that seemed to her quite unnecessary.
"And where were you wounded?" asked Miss Brent conventionally.
"Clean through the buttocks, mum," replied Uncle simply.
Miss Brent flushed and cast a swift glance at Elton, whose face showed no sign. She turned to Uncle and regarded him severely; but he was blissfully unaware of having offended.
"Can't sit down now, mum, without it 'urtin'," added Uncle, interpreting Miss Brent's steady gaze as betokening interest.
"Oh, Goddy! I've been trying to fight my way across to you for hours." The pretty brunette to whom Elton had bowed joined the group. "I've been giving you the glad eye all the afternoon and you merely bow. Well, Uncle, how's the wound?"
Miss Brent gasped. She was unaware that Uncle's wound was the standing joke among all Lady Meyfield's guests.
"Oh! I'm gettin' on, thank you," said Uncle cheerfully. "Mustn't complain."
"Isn't he a darling?" The girl addressed herself to Miss Brent, who merely stared.
"Do you refer to Uncle or to me?" enquired Elton.
"Why both, of course; but—" she paused and, screwing up her piquante little face in thought she added, "but I think Uncle's the darlinger though, don't you?"
Again she challenged Miss Brent.
"Good job my missis can't 'ear 'er," was Uncle's comment to Elton.
"There, you see!" cried the girl gaily, "Uncle talks about his wife when I make love to him, and as for Goddy," she turned and regarded Elton with a quizzical expression, "he treats my passion with a look that clearly says prunes and prisms."
Miss Brent's head was beginning to whirl. Somewhere at the back of her mind was the unuttered thought, What would Little Milstead think of such conversation? She was brought back to Lady Meyfield's drawing-room by hearing the brunette once more addressing her.
"They're the two most interesting men in the room. I call them the Dove and the Serpent. Uncle has the guilelessness of the dove, whilst Godfrey has all the wisdom of the serpent. The three of us together would make a most perfect Garden of Eden. Wouldn't we, Goddy?"
"You are getting a little confused, Peggy," said Elton. "This is not a fancy dress——"
"Stop him, someone!" cried the brunette, "he's going to say something naughty."
Elton smiled, Miss Brent continued to stare, whilst Uncle with a grin of admiration cried:
"Lor', don't she run on!"
"Now come along, Uncle!" cried the girl. "I've found some topping chocolates, a new kind. They're priceless," and she dragged Uncle off to the end of the table.
"Who was that?" demanded Miss Brent of Elton, disapproval in her look and tone.
"Lady Peggy Bristowe," replied Elton.
Miss Brent was impressed. The Bristowes traced their ancestry so far back as to make William the Norman's satellites look almost upstarts.
"She is a little overpowering at first, isn't she?" remarked Elton, smiling in spite of himself at the conflicting emotions depicted upon Miss Brent's face; but Lady Peggy gave her no time to reply. She was back again like a shaft of April sunshine.
"Here, open your mouth, Goddy," she cried, "they're delicious."
Elton did as he was bid, and Lady Peggy popped a chocolate in, then wiping her finger and thumb daintily upon a ridiculously small piece of cambric, she stood in front of Elton awaiting his verdict.
"Like it?" she demanded, her head on one side like a bird, and her whole attention concentrated upon Elton.
"Apart from a suggestion of furniture polish," began Elton, "it is——"
"Hun!" cried Lady Peggy as she whisked over to where she had left Uncle.
"Lady Peggy is rather spoiled," said Elton to Miss Brent. "I fear she trades upon having the prettiest ankles in London."
Miss Brent turned upon Elton one glance, then with head in air and lips tightly compressed, she stalked away. Elton watched her in surprise, unconscious that his casual reference to the ankles of the daughter of a peer had been to Miss Brent the last straw.
"Hate at the prow and virtue at the helm," he murmured as she disappeared.
Miss Brent was now convinced beyond all power of argument to the contrary that her call had landed her in the very midst of an ultra-fast set. She was unaware that Godfrey Elton was notorious among his friends for saying the wrong thing to the right people.
"You never know what Godfrey will say," his Aunt Caroline had remarked on one occasion when he had just confided to the vicar that all introspective women have thick ankles, "and the dear vicar is so sensitive."
It seemed that whenever Elton elected to emerge from the mantle of silence with which he habitually clothed himself, it was in the presence of either a sensitive vicar or someone who was sensitive without being a vicar.
Once when Lady Gilcray had rebuked him for openly admiring Jenny Adam's legs, which were displayed each night to an appreciative public at the Futility Theatre, Elton had replied, "A woman's legs are to me what they are to God," which had silenced her Ladyship, who was not quite sure whether it was rank blasphemy or a classical quotation; but she never forgave him.
Miss Brent made several efforts to approach Lady Meyfield to have a few minutes' talk with her about the subject of her call; but without success. She was always surrounded either by arriving or departing guests, and soldiers seemed perpetually hovering about ready to pounce upon her at the first opportunity.
At last Miss Brent succeeded in attracting her hostess' attention, and before she knew exactly what had happened, Lady Meyfield had shaken hands, thanked her for coming, hoped she would come again soon, and Miss Brent was walking downstairs her mission unaccomplished. Her only consolation was the knowledge that within the next day or twoThe Morning Postwould put matters upon a correct footing.
A mile away Patricia was tapping out upon her typewriter that "pigs are the potential saviours of the Empire."