Patricia Brent, Spinster Part 16

"It's difficult, isn't it, Patricia?" he said.

"It's absurd, and please don't call me Patricia."

"But we're engaged and----"

"We're nothing of the sort," she said.

"But we are," protested Bowen. "I can----"

"Never mind what you can do," she retorted. "What am I to tell Aunt Adelaide at half-past five to-morrow evening?"

"Why not tell her the truth?" said Bowen.

"Isn't that just like a man?" Patricia addressed the query to a deer that was eyeing the car curiously from some fifty yards distance.

"Tell the truth," she repeated scornfully. "But how much will that help us?"

"Well! let's tell a lie," protested Bowen, smiling.

And then Patricia did a weak and foolish thing, she laughed, and Bowen laughed. Finally they sat and looked at each other helplessly.

"However you got those," she nodded at the ribbons on his breast, "I don't know. It was certainly not for being intelligent."

For a minute Bowen did not reply. He was apparently lost in thought.

Presently he turned to Patricia.

"Look here," he said, "by half-past five to-morrow afternoon I'll have found a solution. Now can't we talk about something pleasant?"

"There is nothing pleasant to talk about when Aunt Adelaide is looming on the horizon. She's about the most unpleasant thing next to chilblains that I know."

"I suppose," said Bowen tentatively, "you couldn't solve the difficulty by marrying me by special licence."

"Marry you by special licence!" cried Patricia in amazement.

"Yes, it would put everything right."

"I think you must be mad," said Patricia with decision; but conscious that her cheeks were very hot.

"I think I must be in love," was Bowen's quiet retort. "Will you?"

"Not even to escape Aunt Adelaide's interrogation would I marry you by special, or any other licence," said Patricia with decision.

Bowen turned away, a shadow falling across his face. Then a moment after, drawing his cigarette-case from his pocket, he enquired, "Shall we smoke?"

Patricia accepted the cigarette he offered her. She watched him as he lighted first hers, then his own. She saw the frown that had settled upon his usually happy face, and noted the staccatoed manner in which he smoked. Then she became conscious that she had been lacking in not only graciousness but common civility. Instinctively she put out her hand and touched his coat-sleeve.

"Please forgive me, I was rather a beast, wasn't I?" she said.

He looked round and smiled; but the smile did not reach his eyes.

"Please try and understand," she said, "and now will you drive me home?"

Bowen looked at her for a moment, then, getting out of the car, started the engine, and without a word climbed back to his seat.

The journey back was performed in silence. At Galvin House Gustave, who was on the look-out, threw open the door with a flourish.

In saying good night neither referred to the subject of their conversation.

As Patricia entered, the lounge seemed suddenly to empty its contents into the hall.

"I hope you enjoyed your ride," said Mr. Bolton.

"I hate motoring," said Patricia. Then she walked upstairs with a curt "Good night," leaving a group of surprised people speculating as to the cause of her mood, and deeply commiserating with Bowen.

CHAPTER VIII

LORD PETER'S S.O.S.

"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 Lords.h.i.+p 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 t.i.tle. 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."