CHAPTER V
PATRICIA'S REVENGE
Galvin House dined at seven-thirty. Miss Wangle had used all her artsin an endeavour to have the hour altered to eight-fifteen, oreight-thirty. "It would add tone to the establishment," she hadexplained to Mrs. Craske-Morton. "It is dreadfully suburban to dine athalf-past seven." Conscious of the views of the other guests, Mrs.Craske-Morton had held out, necessitating the bringing up of MissWangle's heavy artillery, the bishop, whose actual views Miss Wangleshrouded in a mist of words. As far as could be gathered, theillustrious prelate held out very little hope of salvation for anyonewho dined earlier than eight-thirty.
Just as Mrs. Craske-Morton was wavering, Mr. Bolton had floored MissWangle and her ecclesiastical relic with the simple question, "Andwho'll pay for the biscuits I shall have to eat to keep going untilhalf-past eight?"
That had clinched the matter. Galvin House continued to dine at theunfashionable hour of seven-thirty. Miss Wangle had resigned herselfto the inevitable, conscious that she had done her utmost for thesocial salvation of her fellow-guests, and mentally reproachingProvidence for casting her lot with the Cordals and the Boltons, ratherthan with the De Veres and the Montmorencies.
Mr. Bolton confided to his fellow-boarders what he conceived to be thereal cause of Mrs. Craske-Morton's decision.
"She's afraid of what Miss Wangle would eat if left unfed for an extrahour," he had said.
Miss Wangle's appetite was like Dominie Sampson's favourite adjective,"prodigious."
So it came about that on the Friday evening on which Colonel PeterBowen had announced his intention of calling on Patricia, Galvin House,all unconscious of the event, sat down to its evening meal at its usualtime, in its usual coats and blouses, with its usual vacuous smiles andsmall talk, and above all with its usual appetite--an appetite that hadcaused Mrs. Craske-Morton to bless the inauguration of food-control,and to pray devoutly to Providence for food-tickets.
Had anyone suggested to Patricia that she had dressed with more thanusual care that evening, she would have denied it, she might even havebeen annoyed. Her simple evening frock of black voile, unrelieved byany colour save a ribbon of St. Patrick's green that bound her hair,showed up the paleness of her skin and the redness of her lips. At thelast moment, as if under protest, she had pinned some of Bowen'scarnations in her belt.
As she entered the dining-room, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smytheexchanged significant glances. Woman-like they sensed somethingunusual. Galvin House did not usually dress for dinner.
"Going out?" enquired Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe sweetly.
"Probably," was Patricia's laconic reply.
Soup had not been disposed of (it was soup on Mondays, Wednesdays, andFridays; fish on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and neither onSundays at Galvin House) before Gustave entered with an enormousbouquet of crimson carnations. It might almost be said that thecarnations entered propelled by Gustave, as there was very little butGustave's smiling face above and the ends of his legs below the screenof flowers. Instinctively everybody looked at Patricia.
"For you, mees, with Colonel Baun's compliments."
Gustave stood irresolute, the crimson blooms cascading before him.
"You've forgotten the conservatory, Gustave," laughed Mr. Bolton. Itwas always easy to identify the facetious from the serious Mr. Bolton;his jokes were always heralded by a laugh.
"Sir?" interrogated the literal-minded Gustave.
"Never mind, Gustave. Mr. Bolton was joking," said Mrs. Craske-Morton.
"Yes, madame." Gustave smiled a mechanical smile: he overflowed withtact.
"Where will you have the flowers, Miss Brent?" enquired Mrs.Craske-Morton. "They are exquisite."
"Try the bath," suggested Mr. Bolton.
"Sir?" from Gustave.
It was Alice, Gustave's assistant in the dining-room during meals, whocreated the diversion for which Patricia had been devoutly praying. Anaffected little laugh from Miss Sikkum called attention to Alice,standing just inside the door, with an enormous white and gold box tiedwith bright green ribbon.
Patricia regarded the girl in dismay.
"Put them in the lounge, please," she said.
"You are lucky, Miss Brent," giggled Miss Sikkum enviously. "I wonderwhat's in the box."
"A chest protector," Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out.
"Really, Mr. Bolton!" from Mrs. Craske-Morton.
Patricia wondered was she lucky? Why should she be made ridiculous inthis fashion?
"I should say chocolates." The suggestion came from Mr. Cordal througha mouthful of roast beef and Brussels sprouts. Everyone turned to thespeaker, whose gastronomic silence was one of the most cherishedtraditions of Galvin House.
"He must have plenty of money," remarked Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe to MissWangle in a whisper, audible to all. "Those flowers and chocolatesmust have cost a lot."
"Ten pounds." The remark met a large Brussels sprout that Mr. Cordalwas conveying to his mouth and summarily ejected it.
As Mr. Cordal was something on the Stock Exchange (Mr. Bolton had oncesaid he must be a "bear") he was, at Galvin House, the recognisedauthority upon all matters of finance.
"Really, Mr. Cordal!" expostulated Mrs. Craske-Morton, rather outragedat this open discussion of Patricia's affairs.
"Sure of it," was all Mr. Cordal vouchsafed as he shovelled in anothermouthful.
"You've been a goer in your time, Mr. Cordal," said Mr. Bolton.
Mr. Cordal grunted, which may have meant anything, but in allprobability meant nothing.
For a quarter of an hour the inane conversation so characteristic ofmeal-times at Galvin House continued without interruption. HowPatricia hated it. Was this all that life held for her? Was shealways to be a drudge to the Bonsors, a victim of the Wangles and atarget for the Boltons of life? It was to escape such drab existencesthat girls went on the stage, or worse; and why not? She had only onelife, so far as she knew, and here she was sacrificing it to the junglepeople, as she called them. Was there no escape? What St. Georgewould rescue her from this dragon of----?
"Colonel Baun, mees."
Patricia looked up with a start from the apple tart with which she wastrifling. Gustave stood beside her, his face glowing in a way thathinted at a handsome tip. He was all-unconscious that he had answereda very difficult question in a manner entirely unsatisfactory toPatricia.
"I haf show him in the looaunge, mees. He will wait."
Patricia believed him. Was ever man so persistent? She saw throughthe move. He had come an hour earlier to be sure of catching herbefore she went out. Patricia was once more conscious of theridiculous behaviour of her heart. It thumped and pounded against herribs as if determined to compromise her with the rest of the boarders.
"Very well, Gustave, say we are at dinner."
"Yes, mees," and Gustave proceeded with his duties.
"He's clever," was Patricia's inward comment. "He's bought Gustave,and in an hour he'll have the whole blessed place against me."
If the effect upon Patricia of Gustave's announcement had beenstartling, that upon the rest of the company was galvanic. Each feltaggrieved that proper notice had not been given of so auspicious anevent. There was a general feeling of resentment against Patricia fornot having told them that she expected Bowen to call.
There were covert glances at their garments by the ladies, and amongthe men a consciousness that the clothes they were wearing were notthose they had upstairs.
Miss Sikkum's playful fancy was with the Brixton "Paris model," whichonly that day she had taken to the cleaners; Miss Wangle was consciousthat she had not hung herself with her full equipment of chains andaccoutrements; Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe thought regretfully of the paleblue evening-gown upstairs, a garment that had followed the course offashion for nearly a quarter of a century. Mr. Bolton had doubts abouthis collar and his boots, whilst Mr. Cordal, with the aid of his napkinand some water from a drinking glass, strove to remove
from hiswaistcoat reminiscences of bygone repasts.
The other members of the company all had something to regret. Mr.Archibald Sefton, whose occupation was a secret between himself andProvidence, was dubious about the creases in his trousers; Mrs. Barneswondered if the gallant colonel would discover the ink she had that dayapplied to the seams of her dress. Everyone was constrained andanxious to get to his or to her room for repairs.
"Did you know Colonel Bowen was coming?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton,quite at her ease in the knowledge that "something had told her" to puton her best black silk and the large cameo pendant that made her looklike a wine-steward at a fashionable restaurant.
"He said he might drop in; but he's so casual that I didn't think itworth mentioning," said Patricia, conscious that the reply wasunanimously regarded as unconvincing.
Having finished her coffee Patricia rose in a leisurely manner. Shewas no sooner out of the door than a veritable stampede ensued. Everyone intended "just to slip upstairs for a moment," and each glared atthe other on discovering that all seemed inspired by the same idea.
Mrs. Craske-Morton went to her "boudoir" out of tactful considerationfor the young lovers; Mrs. Hamilton went up to the drawing-room for thesame reason.
Patricia paused for a moment outside the door of the lounge. She puther cool hands to her hot cheeks, wondering why her heart should showso little regard for her feelings. She felt an impulse to run away andlock herself in her own room and cry "Go away!" to anyone who mightknock. She strove to work herself into a state of anger with Bowen fordaring to come an hour before the time appointed.
As she entered the lounge, Bowen sprang up and came towards her. Therewas a spirit of boyish mischief lurking in his eyes.
"I suppose," said Patricia as they shook hands, "you think this is veryclever."
"Please, Patricia, don't bully me."
Patricia laughed in spite of herself at the humility and appeal in hisvoice. She was conscious that she was not behaving as she ought, orhad intended to behave.
"It seems an age since I saw you," he continued.
"Forty-eight hours, to be exact," commented Patricia, forgetful of allthe reproachful things she had intended to say.
"You got the flowers?" as his eye fell on the carnations which Gustavehad placed in a large bowl.
"Yes, thank you very much indeed, they're exquisite. They made MissSikkum quite envious."
"Who's Miss Sikkum?"
"Time, in all probability, will show," replied Patricia, seatingherself on a settee. Bowen drew up a chair and sat opposite to her.She liked him for that. Had he sat beside her, she told herself, shewould have hated him.
"You're not angry with me, Patricia, are you?" There was an anxiousnote in his voice.
"Do you appreciate that you've made me extremely ridiculous with yourtelegrams, messenger-boys, conservatories, and confectioner's-shops?Why did you do it?"
"I don't know," he confessed with unconscious gaucherie, "I simplycouldn't get you out of my thoughts."
"Which shows that you tried," commented Patricia, the lightness of herwords contradicted by the blush that accompanied them.
"The King's Regulations do not provide for Patricias," he replied, "andI had to try. That is how I knew."
"Do you think I'm a cormorant, as well as an abandoned person?" shedemanded.
"A cormorant?" queried Bowen, ignoring the second question. "I don'tunderstand."
"Within twenty-four hours you have sent me enough chocolates to lastfor a couple of months."
"Poor Patricia!" he laughed.
"You mustn't call me Patricia, Colonel Bowen," she said primly. "Whatwill people think?"
"What would they think if they heard the man you're engaged to call youMiss Brent?"
"We are not engaged," said Patricia hotly.
"We are," his eyes smiled into hers. "I can bring all these peoplehere to prove it on your own statement."
She bit her Up. "Are you going to be mean? Are you going to play thegame?" She awaited his reply with an anxiety she strove to disguise.
Bowen looked straight into her eyes until they fell beneath his gaze.
"I'm afraid I've got to be mean, Patricia," he said quietly. "May wesmoke?"
As she took a cigarette from his case and he lighted it for her,Patricia found herself experiencing a new sensation. Without apparenteffort he had assumed control of the situation, and then with amasterfulness that she felt rather than acknowledged, had put thesubject aside as if requiring no further comment. This was a side ofBowen's character that she had not yet seen. As she was debating withherself whether or no she liked it, the door opened, giving access to astream of Galvin Houseites.
"Oh!" gasped Patricia hysterically, "they're all dressed up, and it'sin your honour."
"What's that?" enquired Bowen, less mentally agile than Patricia, as heturned round to gaze at the string of paying guests that oozed into theroom.
"They've put on their best bibs and tuckers for you," she cried. "Oh!please don't even smile, _ple-e-e-ase_!"
The first to enter was Miss Wangle. Although she had not changed herdress, it was obvious that she had taken considerable pains with herpersonal appearance. On her fingers were more than the usual weight ofrings; round her neck were flung a few additional chains; on her armshung an extra bracelet or two and, as a final touch, she had added afan to her equipment. To Patricia's keen eyes it was clear that shehad re-done her hair, and she carried her lorgnettes, things that inthemselves betokened a ceremonial occasion.
Following Miss Wangle like an echo came Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. She hadevidently taken her courage in both hands and donned the blue eveningfrock, to which she had added a pair of white gloves which reachedbarely to the elbow, although the frock ended just below her shoulders.
Miss Wangle bowed graciously to Patricia, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe followedsuit. They moved over to the extreme end of the room. Mr. Cordal wasthe next arrival, closely followed by Mr. Bolton. At the sight of Mr.Cordal Patricia started and bit her lower lip. He had assumed a vividblue tie, and had obviously changed his collar. From the darker spotson his waistcoat and coat it was evident that he had subjected hisclothes to a vigorous process of cleaning.
Mr. Bolton, on the other hand, had followed Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe'slead, and made a clean sweep. He had assumed a black frock-coat; buthad apparently not thought it worth while to change his brown tweedtrousers, which hung about his boots in shapeless folds, as ifconscious that they had no right there. He, too, had donned a cleancollar and, by way of adding to his splendour, had assumed a whitesatin necktie threaded through a "diamond" ring. His thin dark hairwas generously oiled and, as he passed over to the side of the roomoccupied by Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, he left behind him astrong odour of verbena.
Mrs. Barnes came next and, one by one, the other guests drifted in.All had assumed something in the nature of a wedding garment in honourof Patricia's fiance. Miss Sikkum had selected a pea-green satinblouse, which caused Bowen to screw his eyeglass vigorously into hiseye and gaze at her in wonder.
"Do you like them?" It was Patricia who broke the silence.
With a start Bowen turned to her. "Er--er--they seem an er--awfullydecent crowd."
Patricia laughed. "Yes, aren't they? Dreadfully decent. How wouldyou like to live among them all? Why they haven't the pluck to break acommandment among them."
Bowen looked at Patricia in surprise. "Really!" was the only remark hecould think of.
"And now I've shocked you!" cried Patricia. "You must not think that Ilike people who break commandments. I don't know exactly what I domean. Oh, here you are!" and she ran across as Mrs. Hamilton enteredand drew her towards Bowen. "Now I know what I meant. This dearlittle creature has never broken a commandment, I wouldn't mind bettingeverything I have, and she has never been uncharitable to anyone whohas. Isn't that so?" She turned to Mrs. Hamilton, who was regardingher in astonishment. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I'm quite
mad to-night, youmustn't mind. You see Colonel Bowen's mad and he makes me mad."
Turning to Bowen she introduced him to Mrs. Hamilton. "This is myfriend, Mrs. Hamilton." Then to Mrs. Hamilton. "You know all aboutColonel Bowen, don't you, dear? He's the man who sends meconservatories and telegrams and boy-messengers and things."
Mrs. Hamilton smiled up sweetly at Bowen, and held out her hand.
Patricia glanced across at the group at the other end of the lounge.The scene reminded her of Napoleon on the _Bellerophon_.
Suddenly she had an idea. It synchronised with the entry of Gustave,who stood just inside the door smiling inanely.
"Call a taxi for Colonel Bowen, please, Gustave," she said coolly.
Gustave looked surprised, the group looked disappointed, Bowen lookedat Patricia with a puzzled expression.
"I'm sorry you're in a hurry," said Patricia, holding out her hand toBowen. "I'm busy also."
"But----" began Bowen.
"Oh! don't trouble." Patricia advanced, and he had perforce to retreattowards the door. "See you again sometime. Good-bye," and Bowen foundhimself in the hall.
"Damn!" he muttered.
"Sir?" interrogated Gustave anxiously.
As Bowen was replying to Gustave in coin, Mrs. Craske-Morton appearedat the head of the stairs on her way down to the lounge after hertactful absence. For a moment she hesitated in obvious surprise, then,with the air of a would-be traveller who hears the guard's whistle, shethrew dignity aside and made for Bowen.
"Colonel Bowen?" she interrogated anxiously.
Bowen turned and bowed.
"I am Mrs. Craske-Morton. Miss Brent did not tell me that you weremaking so short a call, or I would----" Mrs. Craske-Morton's pauseimplied that nothing would have prevented her from hurrying down.
"You are very kind," murmured Bowen absently, not yet recovered fromhis unceremonious dismissal. He was brought back to realities by Mrs.Craske-Morton expressing a hope that he would give her the pleasure ofdining at Galvin House one evening. "Shall we say Friday?" shecontinued without allowing Bowen time to reply, "and we will keep it asa delightful surprise for Miss Brent." Mrs. Craske-Morton exposed herteeth and felt romantic.
When Bowen left Galvin House that evening he was pledged to givePatricia "a delightful surprise" on the following Friday.
"That will teach them to pity me!" murmured Patricia that night as shebrushed her hair with what seemed entirely unnecessary vigour. She wasconscious that she was the best-hated girl in Bayswater, as sherecalled the angry and reproachful looks directed towards her by herfellow-guests after Bowen's departure.
In an adjoining room Miss Wangle, a black cap upon her head, was alsoengaged in brushing her hair with a gentleness foreign to most of heractions.
"The cat!" she murmured as she lay it in its drawer, and then as shelocked the drawer she repeated, "The cat!"