CHAPTER VI
THE INTERVENTION OF AUNT ADELAIDE
Sunday at Galvin House was a day of bodily rest but acute mentalactivity. The day of God seemed to draw out the worst in everybody;all were in their best clothes and on their worst behaviour. Mr.Cordal descended to breakfast in carpet slippers with fur tops. MissWangle regarded this as a mark of disrespect towards the grand-niece ofa bishop. She would glare at Mr. Cordal's slippers as if convincedthat the cloven hoof were inside.
Mr. Bolton sported a velvet smoking-jacket, white at the elbows, lightgrey trousers and a manner that seemed to say, "Ha! here's Sundayagain, good!" After breakfast he added a fez and a British cigar tohis equipment, and retired to the lounge to read _Lloyd's News_. Boththe cigar and the newspaper lasted him throughout the day. Somewhereat the back of his mind was the conviction that in smoking a cigar,which he disliked, he was making a fitting distinction between theSabbath and week-days. He went even further, for whereas on seculardays he lit his inexpensive cigarettes with matches, on the Sabbath heused only fusees.
"I love the smell of fusees," Miss Sikkum would simper, regardless ofthe fact that a hundred times before she had taken Galvin House intoher confidence on the subject. "I think they're so romantic."
Patricia wondered if Mr. Bolton's fusee were an offering to heaven orto Miss Sikkum.
On Sunday mornings Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe went to divineservice at Westminster Abbey, and Mr. Cordal went to sleep in thelounge.
Mrs. Barnes wandered aimlessly about, making anxious enquiry ofeveryone she encountered. If it were cloudy, did they think it wouldrain? If it rained, did they think it would clear up? If it werefine, did they think it would last? Mrs. Barnes was always going to dosomething that was contingent upon the weather. Every Sunday she wasgoing for a walk in the Park, or to church; but her constitutionalindecision of character intervened.
Mr. Archibald Sefton, who showed the qualities of a landscape gardenerin the way in which he arranged his thin fair hair to disguise thedesert of baldness beneath, was always vigorous on Sundays. Hedescended to the dining-room rubbing his hands in a manner suggestiveof a Dickens Christmas. After breakfast he walked in the Park, "togive the girls a treat," as Mr. Bolton had once expressed it, which hadearned for him a stern rebuke from Miss Wangle. In the afternoon Mr.Sefton returned to the Park, and in the evening yet again.
Mr. Sefton had a secret that was slowly producing in him misanthropy.His nature was tropical and his courage arctic, which, coupled with hisforty-five years, was a great obstacle to his happiness. In dress hewas a dandy, at heart he was a craven and, never daring, he wasconsumed with his own fire.
The other guests at Galvin House drifted in and out, said the samethings, wore the same clothes, with occasional additions, had the samethoughts; whilst over all, as if to compose the picture, brooded thereek of cooking.
The atmosphere of Galvin House was English, the cooking was English,and the lack of culinary imagination also was English. There were twoand a half menus for the one o'clock Sunday dinner. Roast mutton,onion sauce, cabbage, potatoes, fruit pie, and custard; alternated forfour weeks with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, cauliflower, roastpotatoes, and lemon pudding. Then came roast pork, apple sauce,potatoes, greens with stewed fruit and cheese afterwards.
The cuisine was in itself a calendar. If your first Sunday were aroast-pork Sunday, you knew without mental effort on every roast-porkSunday exactly how many months you had been there. If for a moment youhad forgotten the day, and found yourself toying with a herring atdinner, you knew it was a Tuesday, just as you knew it was Friday fromthe Scotch broth placed before you.
Nobody seemed to mind the dreary reiteration, because everybody was sooccupied in keeping up appearances. Sunday was the day of reckoningand retrospection. "Were they getting full value for their money?" wasthe unuttered question. There were whisperings and grumblings,sometimes complaints. Then there was another aspect. Each guest hadto enquire if the expenditure were justified by income. All thesethings, like the weekly mending, were kept for Sundays.
By tea-time the atmosphere was one of unrest. Mr. Sefton returned fromthe Park disappointed, Miss Sikkum from Sunday-school, breathless fromher flight before some alleged admirer, Patricia from her walk,conscious of a dissatisfaction she could not define. Mr. Cordal awokeunrefreshed, Mrs. Craske-Morton emerged from her "boudoir," where shebalanced the week's accounts, convinced that ruin stared her in theface owing to the tonic qualities of Bayswater air, and Mr. Boltonemerged from _Lloyd's News_ facetious. Miss Wangle was acid, Mrs.Mosscrop-Smythe ultra-forbearing, whilst Mrs. Barnes found itimpossible to decide between a heart-cake and a rusk. Only Mrs.Hamilton, at work upon her inevitable knitting, seemed human andcontent.
On returning to Galvin House Patricia had formed a habit ofinstinctively casting her eyes in the direction of the letter-rack,beneath which was the table on which parcels were placed that theymight be picked up as the various guests entered on their way to theirrooms. She took herself severely to task for this weakness, but inspite of her best efforts, her eyes would wander towards the table andletter-rack. At last she had to take stern measures with herself anddeliberately walk along the hall with her face turned to the left, thatis to the side opposite from that of the letter-rack table.
On the Sunday afternoon following her adventure at the QuadrantGrill-room, Patricia entered Galvin House, her head resolutely turnedto the left, and ran into Gustave.
"Oh, mees!" he exclaimed, his gentle, cow-like face expressing painedsurprise, rather than indignation.
Gustave was a Swiss, a French-Swiss, he was emphatic on this point.Patricia said he was Swiss wherever he wasn't French, and Germanwherever he wasn't Swiss and French.
"I am so sorry, Gustave," apologised Patricia. "I wasn't looking whereI was going."
Gustave smiled amiably, Patricia was a great favourite of his. "Thereis a lady in the looaunge, Mees Brent, the same as you." Gustavesmiled broadly as if he had discovered some subtle joke in theduplication of Patricia's name.
"Oh, bother!" muttered Patricia to herself. "Aunt Adelaide, imagineAunt Adelaide on an afternoon like this."
She entered the lounge wearily, to find Miss Brent the centre of agroup, the foremost in which were Mrs. Craske-Morton, Miss Wangle, andMrs. Mosscrop-Smythe. Patricia groaned in spirit; she knew exactlywhat had been taking place, and now she would have to explaineverything. Could she explain? Had she for one moment paused to thinkof Aunt Adelaide, no amount of frenzy or excitement would have promptedher to such an adventure. Miss Brent would probe the mystery out of aghost. Material, practical, levelheaded, victorious, she would stripromance from a legend, or glamour from a myth.
As she entered the lounge, Patricia saw by the movement of MissWangle's lips that she was saying "Ah! here she is." Miss Brent turnedand regarded her niece with a long, non-committal stare. Patriciawalked over to her.
"Hullo, Aunt Adelaide! Who would have thought of seeing you here."
Miss Brent looked up at her, received the frigid kiss upon one cheekand returned it upon the other.
"A peck for a peck," muttered Patricia to herself under her breath.
"We've been talking about you," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smytheingratiatingly.
"How strange," announced Patricia indifferently. "Well, AuntAdelaide," she continued, turning to Miss Brent, "this is an unexpectedpleasure. How is it you are dissipating in town?"
"I want to speak to you, Patricia. Is there a quiet corner where weshall not be overheard?"
Miss Wangle started, Mrs. Craske-Morton rose hurriedly and made for thedoor. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe looked uncomfortable. Miss Brent'sdirectness was a thing dreaded by all who knew her.
"You had better come up to my room, Aunt Adelaide," said Patricia.
As she reached the door, Mrs. Craske-Morton turned. "Oh! Miss Brent,"she said, addressing Patricia, "would you not like to take your auntinto my boudoir? It is entirely at you
r disposal."
Mrs. Craske-Morton's "boudoir" was a small cupboard-like apartment inwhich she made up her accounts. It was as much like a boudoir as astarveling mongrel is like an aristocratic chow. Patricia smiled herthanks. One of Patricia's great points was that she could smile anacknowledgment in a way that was little less than inspiration.
When they reached the "boudoir," Miss Brent sat down with a suddennessand an air of aggression that left Patricia in no doubt as to thenature of the talk she desired to have with her.
Miss Brent was a tall, angular woman, with spinster shouting from everyangle of her uncomely person. No matter what the fashion, she seemedto wear her clothes all bunched up about her hips. Her hair wasdragged to the back of her head, and crowned by a hat known in the dimrecesses of the Victorian past as a "boater." A veil clawed whatremained of the hair and hat towards the rear, and accentuated thesharpness of her nose and the fleshlessness of her cheeks. Miss Brentlooked like nothing so much as an aged hawk in whom the lust to preystill lingered, without the power of making the physical effort tocapture it.
"Patricia," she demanded, "what is all this I hear?"
"If you've been talking to Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, AuntAdelaide, heaven only knows what you've heard," replied Patricia calmly.
"Patricia." Miss Brent invariably began her remarks by uttering thename of the person whom she addressed. "Patricia, you know perfectlywell what I mean."
"I should know better, if you would tell me," murmured Patricia with apatient sigh as she seated herself in the easiest of the uneasy chairs,and proceeded to pull off her gloves.
"Patricia, I refer to these stories about your being engaged."
"Yes, Aunt Adelaide?"
"Have you nothing to say?"
"Nothing in particular. People get engaged, you know. I suppose it isbecause they've got nothing else to do."
"Patricia, don't be frivolous."
"Frivolous! Me frivolous! Aunt Adelaide! If you were a secretary toa brainless politician, who is supposed to rise, but who won't rise,can't rise, and never will rise, from ten until five each day, for themagnificent salary of two and a half guineas a week, even you wouldn'tbe able to be frivolous."
"Patricia!" There was surprised disapproval in Miss Brent's voice."Are you mad?"
"No, Aunt Adelaide, just bored, just bored stiff." Patricia emphasisedthe word "stiff" in a way that brought Miss Brent into an even moreupright position.
"Patricia, I wish you would change your idiom. Your flagrant vulgaritywould have deeply pained your poor, dear father."
Patricia made no response; she simply looked as she felt, unutterablybored. She was incapable even of invention. Supposing she told heraunt the whole story, at least she would have the joy of seeing thelook of horror that would overspread her features.
"Patricia," continued Miss Brent, "I repeat, what is this I hear aboutyour being engaged?"
"Oh!" replied Patricia indifferently, "I suppose you've heard thetruth; I've got engaged."
"Without telling me a word about it."
"Oh, well! those are nasty things, you know, that one doesn'tadvertise."
"Patricia!"
"Well, aunt, you say that all men are beasts, and if you associate withbeasts, you don't like the world to know about it."
"Patricia!" repeated Miss Brent.
"Aunt Adelaide!" cried Patricia, "you make me feel that I absolutelyhate my name. I wish I'd been numbered. If you say 'Patricia' again Ishall scream."
"Is it true that you are engaged to Lord Peter Bowen?"
"Good Lord, no." Patricia sat up in astonishment.
"Then that woman in the lounge is a liar."
There was uncompromising conviction in Miss Brent's tone.
Patricia leaned forward and smiled. "Aunt Adelaide, you are singularlydiscriminating to-day. She is a liar, and she also happens to be acat."
Miss Brent appeared not to hear Patricia's remark. She was occupiedwith her own thoughts. She possessed a masculine habit of thinkingbefore she spoke, and in consequence she was as devoid of impulse andspontaneity as a snail.
Patricia watched her aunt covertly, her mind working furiously. Whatcould it mean? Lord Peter Bowen! Miss Wangle was not given to makingmistakes in which the aristocracy were concerned. At Galvin House shewas the recognised authority upon anything and everything concernedwith royalty and the titled and landed gentry. County families wereher hobbies and the peerage her obsession. It would be just likePeter, thought Patricia, to turn out a lord, just the ridiculous,inconsequent sort of thing he would delight in. She was unconscious ofany incongruity in thinking of him as Peter. It seemed the naturalthing to do.
She saw by the signs on her aunt's face that she was nearing adecision. Conscious that she must not burn her boats, Patricia burstin upon Miss Brent's thoughts with a suddenness that startled her.
"If Miss Wangle desires to discuss my friends with you in future, AuntAdelaide, I think she should adopt the names by which they prefer to beknown."
Patricia watched the surprised look upon her aunt's face, and withdignity met the keen hawk-like glance that flashed from her eyes.
"If, for reasons of his own," continued Patricia, "a man chooses todrop his title in favour of his rank in the army, that I think is amatter for him to decide, and not one that requires discussion at MissWangle's hands."
Miss Brent's stare convinced Patricia that she was carrying things offrather well.
"Patricia, where did you meet this Colonel Peter Bowen?"
The question came like a thunder-clap to Patricia's unprepared ears.All her self-complacency of a moment before now deserted her.
She felt her face crimsoning. How she envied girls who did not blush.What on earth could she tell her aunt? Why had an undiscriminatingProvidence given her an Aunt Adelaide at all? Why had it not bestowedthis inestimable treasure upon someone more deserving? What could shesay? As well think of lying to Rhadamanthus as to Miss Brent. ThenPatricia had an inspiration. She would tell her aunt the truth,trusting to her not to believe it.
"Where did I meet him, Aunt Adelaide?" she remarked indifferently."Oh! I picked him up in a restaurant; he looked nice."
"Patricia, how dare you say such a thing before me." A slight flushmantled Miss Brent's sallow cheeks. All the proprieties, all thechastities and all the moralities banked up behind her in moral support.
"You ought to feel ashamed of yourself, Patricia. London has done youno good. What would your poor dear father have said?"
"I'm sorry, Aunt Adelaide; but please remember I've had a very tiringweek, trying to leaven an unleavenable politician. Shall we drop thesubject of Colonel Bowen for the time being?"
"Certainly not," snapped Miss Brent. "It is my duty as your solesurviving relative," how Patricia deplored that word "surviving," whyhad her Aunt Adelaide survived? "As your sole surviving relative,"repeated Miss Brent, "it is my duty to look after your welfare."
"But," protested Patricia, "I'm nearly twenty-five, and I am quite ableto look after myself."
"Patricia, it is my duty to look after you." Miss Brent spoke as ifshe were about to walk over heated ploughshares rather than to satisfya natural curiosity.
"I repeat," proceeded Miss Brent, "where did you meet Colonel Bowen?"
"I have told you, Aunt Adelaide, but you won't believe me."
"I want to know the truth, Patricia. Is he really Lord Peter?"persisted Miss Brent.
"To be quite candid, I've never asked him," replied Patricia.
Miss Brent stared at her niece. The obviously feminine thing was toexpress surprise; but Miss Brent never did the obvious thing. Insteadof repeating, "Never asked him!" she remained silent for some momentswhile Patricia, with great intentness, proceeded to jerk her glovesinto shape.
"Patricia, you are mad!" Miss Brent spoke with conviction.
Patricia glanced up from her occupation and smiled at her aunt as ifentirely sharing her conviction.
>
"It's the price of spinsterhood with some women," was all she said.
Miss Brent glared at her; but there was more than a spice of curiosityin her look.
"Then you decline to tell me?" she enquired. There was in her voice anote that told of a mind made up.
Patricia knew from past experience that her aunt had made up her mindas to her course of action.
"Tell you what?" she enquired innocently.
"Whether or no the Colonel Bowen you are engaged to is Lord PeterBowen."
Patricia determined to temporise in order to gain time. She knew AuntAdelaide to be capable of anything, even to calling upon Lord PeterBowen's family and enquiring if it were he to whom her niece wasengaged. She was too bewildered to know how to act. It would be solike this absurd person to turn out to be a lord and make her stillmore ridiculous. If he were Lord Peter, why on earth had he not toldher? Had he thought she would be dazzled?
Suddenly there flashed into Patricia's mind an explanation which causedher cheeks to flame and her eyes to flash. She strove to put the ideaaside as unworthy of him; but it refused to leave her. She had heardof men giving false names to girls they met--in the way she and Bowenhad met. He had, then, in spite of his protestations, mistaken her.In all probability he was not staying at the Quadrant at all. What afool she had been. She had told all about herself, whereas he had toldher nothing beyond the fact that his name was Peter Bowen. Oh, it wasintolerable, humiliating!
The worst of it was that she seemed unable to extricate herself fromthe ever-increasing tangle arising out of her folly. Miss Wangle andGalvin House had been sufficiently serious factors, requiring all herwatchfulness to circumvent them; but now Aunt Adelaide had thrownherself precipitately into the melee, and heaven alone knew what wouldbe the outcome!
Had her aunt been a man or merely a woman, Patricia argued, she wouldnot have been so dangerous; but she possessed the deliberate logic ofthe one and the quickness of perception of the other. With herfeminine eye she could see, and with her man-like brain she could judge.
Patricia felt that the one thing to do was to get rid of her aunt forthe day and then think things over quietly and decide as to her plan ofcampaign.
"Please, Aunt Adelaide," she said, "don't let's discuss it any moreto-day, I've had such a worrying time at the Bonsors', and my head isso stupid. Come to tea to-morrow afternoon at half-past five and Iwill tell you all, as they say in the novelettes; but for heaven's sakedon't get talking to those dreadful old tabbies. They have no affairsof their own, and at the present moment they simply live upon mine."
"Very well, Patricia," replied Miss Brent as she rose to go, "I willwait until to-morrow; but, understand me, I am your sole survivingrelative and I have a duty to perform by you. That duty I shallperform whatever it costs me."
As Patricia looked into the hard, cold eyes of her aunt, she believedher. At that moment Miss Brent looked as if she represented all theaggressive virtues in Christendom.
"It's very sweet of you, Aunt Adelaide, and I very much appreciate yourinterest. I am all nervy to-day; but I shall be all right to-morrow.Don't forget, half-past five here. That will give me time to get backfrom the Bonsors'."
Miss Brent pecked Patricia's right cheek and moved towards the door."Remember, Patricia," she said, as a final shot, "to-morrow I shallexpect a full explanation. I am deeply concerned about you. I cannotconceive what your poor dear father would have said had he been alive."
With this parting shot Miss Brent moved down the staircase and leftGalvin House. As she stalked to the temperance hotel in Bloomsbury,where she was staying, she was fully satisfied that she had done herduty as a woman and a Christian.
"Sole surviving relative," muttered Patricia as she turned back afterseeing her aunt out. And then she remembered with a smile that herfather had once said that "relatives were the very devil." A softnesscame into her eyes at the thought of her father, and she rememberedanother saying of his, "When you lose your sense of humour and yourcourage at the same time, you have lost the game."
For a moment Patricia paused, deliberating what she would do. Finally,she walked to the telephone at the end of the hall. There was agrimness about her look indicative of a set purpose, taking down thereceiver she called "Gerrard 60000."
There was a pause.
"That the Quadrant Hotel?" she enquired. "Is Lord Peter Bowen in?"
The clerk would enquire.
Patricia waited what seemed an age.
At last a voice cried, "Hullo!"
"Is that Lord Peter Bowen?"
"Is that you, Patricia?" came the reply from the other end of the wire.
"Oh, so it is true then!" said Patricia.
"What's true?" queried Bowen at the other end.
"What I've just said."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"I must see you this evening," said Patricia in an even voice.
"That's most awfully good of you."
"It's nothing of the sort."
Bowen laughed. "Shall I come round?"
"No."
"Will you dine with me?"
"No."
"Well, where shall I see you?"
Patricia thought for a moment. "I will meet you at Lancaster Gate tubeat twenty minutes to nine."
"All right, I'll be there. Shall I bring the car?"
For a moment Patricia hesitated. She did not want to go to arestaurant with him, she wanted merely to talk and see how she was toget out of the difficulty with Aunt Adelaide. The car seemed to offera solution. They could drive out to some quiet place and then talkwithout a chance of being overheard.
"Yes, please, I think that will do admirably."
"Mind you bring a thick coat. Won't you let me pick you up? Pleasedo, then you can bring a fur coat and all that sort of thing, you know."
Again Patricia hesitated for a moment. "Perhaps that would be thebetter way," she conceded grudgingly.
"Right-oh! Will half-past eight do?"
"Yes, I'll be ready."
"It's awfully kind of you; I'm frightfully bucked."
"You had better wait and see, I think," was Patricia's grim retort."Good-bye."
"Au revoir."
Patricia put the receiver up with a jerk.
She returned to her room conscious that she was never able to doherself justice with Bowen. Her most righteous anger was always indanger of being dissipated when she spoke to him. His personalityseemed to radiate good nature, and he always appeared so genuinely gladto see her, or hear her voice that it placed her at a disadvantage.She ought to be stronger and more tenacious of purpose, she toldherself. It was weak to be so easily influenced by someone else,especially a man who had treated her in the way that Bowen had treatedher; for Patricia had now come to regard herself as extremely ill-used.
Nothing, she told herself, would have persuaded her to ring up Bowen inthe way she had done, had it not been for Aunt Adelaide. In her heartshe had to confess that she was very much afraid of Aunt Adelaide andwhat she might do.
Patricia dreaded dinner that evening. She knew instinctively thateverybody would be full of Miss Wangle's discovery. She might haveknown that Miss Wangle would not be satisfied until she had discoveredeverything there was to be discovered about Bowen.
As Patricia walked along the hall to the staircase, Mrs. Hamilton cameout of the lounge. Patricia put her arm round the fragile waist of theold lady and they walked upstairs together.
"Well," said Patricia gaily, "what are the old tabbies doing thisafternoon?"
"My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Hamilton gently, "you mustn't call themthat, they have so very little to interest them that--that----"
"Oh, you dear, funny little thing!" said Patricia, giving Mrs. Hamiltona squeeze which almost lifted her off her feet. "I think you wouldfind an excuse for anyone, no matter how wicked. When I get very, verybad I shall come and ask you to explain me to myself. I think if youhad your way you would prove every w
olf a sheep underneath. Come intomy room and have a pow-wow."
Inside her room Patricia lifted Mrs. Hamilton bodily on to the bed."Now lie there, you dear little thing, and have a rest. Dad used tosay that every woman ought to lie on her back for two hours each day.I don't know why. I suppose it was to keep her quiet and get her outof the way. In any case you have got to lie down there."
"But your bed, my dear," protested Mrs. Hamilton.
"Never mind my bed, you just do as you're told. Now what are the oldcats--I beg your pardon, what have the--lambs been saying?"
Mrs. Hamilton smiled in spite of herself. "Well, of course, dear,we're all very interested to hear that you are engaged to--Lord PeterBowen."
"How did they find out?" interrupted Patricia.
"Well, it appears that Miss Wangle has a friend who has a cousin in theWar Office."
"Oh, dear!" groaned Patricia. "I believe Miss Wangle has a friend whohas a cousin in every known place in the world, and a good many unknownplaces," she added. "She has got a bishop in heaven, innumerableconnections in Mayfair, acquaintances at Court, cousins of friends atthe War Office; the only place where she seems to have nobody who hasanybody else is hell."
"My dear!" said Mrs. Hamilton in horror, "you mustn't talk like that."
"But isn't it true?" persisted Patricia. "Well, I'm sorry if I'veshocked you. Tell me all about it."
"Well," began Mrs. Hamilton, "soon after you had gone out Miss Wangle'sfriend telephoned in reply to her letter of enquiry. She told her allabout Lord Peter Bowen, how he had distinguished himself in France, wonthe Military Cross, the D.S.O., how he had been promoted to the rank oflieutenant-colonel, and brought back to the War Office and given aposition on the General Staff. He's a very clever young man, my dear."
Patricia laughed outright at Mrs. Hamilton's earnestness. "Why ofcourse he's clever, otherwise he wouldn't have taken up with such aclever young woman."
"Well, my dear, I hope you'll be happy," said Mrs. Hamilton earnestly.
"I doubt it," said Patricia.
"Doubt it!" There was horror in Mrs. Hamilton's voice. She halfraised herself on the bed. Patricia pushed her back again.
"Never mind, your remark reminds me of a story about agreat-great-grandmother of mine. A granddaughter of hers had becomeengaged and there was a great family meeting to introduce the poorvictim to his future "in-laws." The old lady was very deaf and hadformed the habit of speaking aloud quite unconscious that others couldhear her. The wretched young man was brought up and presented, andeverybody was agog to hear the grandmotherly pronouncement, for the oldlady was as shrewd as she was frank. She looked at the young mankeenly and deliberately, whilst he stood the picture of discomfort, andturning to her granddaughter, said, "Well, my dear, I hope you'll behappy, I hope you'll be very happy," then to herself in an equally loudvoice she added, "But he wouldn't have been my choice, he wouldn't havebeen my choice."
"Oh! the poor dear," said Mrs. Hamilton, seeing only the tragic side ofthe situation.
Patricia laughed. "How like you, you dear little grey lady," and shebent down and kissed the pale cheeks, bringing a slight rose flush tothem.
It was half-past seven before Mrs. Hamilton left Patricia's room.
"Heigh-ho!" sighed Patricia as she undid her hair, "I suppose I shallhave to run the gauntlet during dinner."