Patricia Brent, Spinster Part 22

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, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 G.o.ddy," she turned and regarded Elton with a quizzical expression, "he treats my pa.s.sion 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 G.o.dfrey has all the wisdom of the serpent. The three of us together would make a most perfect Garden of Eden. Wouldn't we, G.o.ddy?"

"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 suns.h.i.+ne.

"Here, open your mouth, G.o.ddy," 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 G.o.dfrey Elton was notorious among his friends for saying the wrong thing to the right people.

"You never know what G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.d," which had silenced her Ladys.h.i.+p, who was not quite sure whether it was rank blasphemy or a cla.s.sical 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 two _The Morning Post_ would 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."

CHAPTER XI

THE DEFECTION OF MR. TRIGGS

"Well, me dear, how goes it?"

Patricia looked up from a Blue Book, from which she was laboriously extracting statistics. Mr. Triggs stood before her, florid and happy.

He was wearing a new black and white check suit, a white waistcoat and a red tie, whilst in his hand he carried a white felt top-hat with a black band.

"It doesn't go at all well," said Patricia, smiling.

"What's the matter, me dear?" he enquired anxiously. "You look f.a.gged out."

"Oh! I'm endeavouring to extract information about potatoes from stupid Blue Books," said Patricia, leaning back in her chair. "Why can't they let potatoes grow without writing about them?" she asked plaintively, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her eyebrows.

"'E ain't much good, is 'e?" enquired Mr. Triggs.

"Who?" asked Patricia in surprise.

"A. B.," said Mr. Triggs, lowering his voice and looking round furtively, "Dull, 'e strikes me."

"Well, you see, Mr. Triggs, he's rising, and you can't rise and be risen at the same time, can you?"

Mr. Triggs shook his head doubtfully. "'E'll no more rise than your salary, me dear," he said.

"Oh! what a gloomy person you are to-day, Mr. Triggs, and you look like a ray of suns.h.i.+ne."

"D'you like it?" enquired Mr. Triggs, smiling happily as he stood back that Patricia might obtain a good view of his new clothes. She now saw that over his black boots he wore a pair of immaculate white spats.