as if conscious that they had no right there. He, too, had donned a clean collar and, by way of adding to his splendour, had assumed a white satin necktie threaded through a "diamond" ring. His thin dark hair was generously oiled and, as he passed over to the side of the room occupied by Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, he left behind him a strong 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 honour of Patricia's fiancé. Miss Sikkum had selected a pea-green satin blouse, which caused Bowen to screw his eyeglass vigorously into his eye 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 – awfully decent crowd."
Patricia laughed. "Yes, aren't they? Dreadfully decent. How would you like to live among them all? Why they haven't the pluck to break a commandment among them."
Bowen looked at Patricia in surprise. "Really!" was the only remark he could think of.
"And now I've shocked you!" cried Patricia. "You must not think that I like people who break commandments. I don't know exactly what I do mean. Oh, here you are!" and she ran across as Mrs. Hamilton entered and drew her towards Bowen. "Now I know what I meant. This dear little creature has never broken a commandment, I wouldn't mind betting everything I have, and she has never been uncharitable to anyone who has. Isn't that so?" She turned to Mrs. Hamilton, who was regarding her in astonishment. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I'm quite mad to-night, you mustn't mind. You see Colonel Bowen's mad and he makes me mad."
Turning to Bowen she introduced him to Mrs. Hamilton. "This is my friend, Mrs. Hamilton." Then to Mrs. Hamilton. "You know all about Colonel Bowen, don't you, dear? He's the man who sends me conservatories 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 looked at Patricia with a puzzled expression.
"I'm sorry you're in a hurry," said Patricia, holding out her hand to Bowen. "I'm busy also."
"But – " began Bowen.
"Oh! don't trouble." Patricia advanced, and he had perforce to retreat towards the door. "See you again sometime. Good-bye," and Bowen found himself in the hall.
"Damn!" he muttered.
"Sir?" interrogated Gustave anxiously.
As Bowen was replying to Gustave in coin, Mrs. Craske-Morton appeared at the head of the stairs on her way down to the lounge after her tactful absence. For a moment she hesitated in obvious surprise, then, with the air of a would-be traveller who hears the guard's whistle, she threw 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 were making so short a call, or I would – " Mrs. Craske-Morton's pause implied that nothing would have prevented her from hurrying down.
"You are very kind," murmured Bowen absently, not yet recovered from his unceremonious dismissal. He was brought back to realities by Mrs. Craske-Morton expressing a hope that he would give her the pleasure of dining at Galvin House one evening. "Shall we say Friday?" she continued without allowing Bowen time to reply, "and we will keep it as a delightful surprise for Miss Brent." Mrs. Craske-Morton exposed her teeth and felt romantic.
When Bowen left Galvin House that evening he was pledged to give Patricia "a delightful surprise" on the following Friday.
"That will teach them to pity me!" murmured Patricia that night as she brushed her hair with what seemed entirely unnecessary vigour. She was conscious that she was the best-hated girl in Bayswater, as she recalled the angry and reproachful looks directed towards her by her fellow-guests after Bowen's departure.
In an adjoining room Miss Wangle, a black cap upon her head, was also engaged in brushing her hair with a gentleness foreign to most of her actions.
"The cat!" she murmured as she lay it in its drawer, and then as she locked the drawer she repeated, "The cat!"
CHAPTER VI
THE INTERVENTION OF AUNT ADELAIDE
Sunday at Galvin House was a day of bodily rest but acute mental activity. 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. Miss Wangle regarded this as a mark of disrespect towards the grand-niece of a bishop. She would glare at Mr. Cordal's slippers as if convinced that the cloven hoof were inside.
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