If you disliked pink and cream and a preponderance of elderly feminine society, you stayed away from the official headquarters, confident that the yellow cups would find out where you were and come to you. Mohammed, at Bragley Court, would not have been put to the trouble of going to his mountain.
John’s cup came to him at exactly five o’clock, on a brightly-polished mahogany tray. It was brought and deposited on a small, low table by the pretty maid, and John watched her with interest to discover whether she still bore any traces of her recent agitation. Outwardly, she was now quite calm again, and because of her pleasant friendly quality he hoped that her appearance reflected the truth.
“Is your foot better, sir?” she asked.
“I am sure this interest is unconstitutional,” thought John, “but it’s nice.” So he did not discourage it. He told her that his foot was very much better. The lie did not impress itself on him at the moment.
A cushion had fallen to the ground. The maid picked it up and fixed it behind his head with a bright smile. Then she put another log on the crackling fire and departed.
It was a small, trivial incident, but later on, among a collection of incidents less trivial, John remembered it.
He was staring at the fire, watching the flames crackle upwards towards the chimney, when a voice said:
“Well, how are you getting along? Do you want some one to pour out your tea?”
He did not have to turn his head. Even if he had not recognised Nadine’s voice he would have sensed her personality in the faint silky rustle of her approach and the less faint aroma of expensive perfume. She disturbed the air as she drew near, breaking it up into little emotional ripples.
“Hallo,” he answered. “I’m all right. And thank you.”
“I could have my tea here with you,” she suggested, having already made up her mind not to have it anywhere else. “Shall I?”
“I’d love it,” replied John. “Only I feel I’m upsetting things terribly. You ought to be with the other guests, oughtn’t you?”
“Why? There are no oughts here. We do as we like. Haven’t you noticed it?”
“I’ve noticed they don’t worry you much.”
“Of course you have. The house is run on lines of the most highly-organised freedom. You may flirt desperately or read the Encyclopædia Britannica. Just follow your mood. No one will interfere with you, or display any vulgar curiosity. Even a man with a bad foot isn’t pestered with attention. But you can be quite sure the name of Foss has been looked up in Debrett.” He laughed. “Is it to be found there?”
“I’ve an uncle who fills a dozen dry lines.”
“Lord Aveling won’t find the lines dry!” smiled Nadine, sitting on the low stool lately occupied by Harold Taverley. For the first time he took in her rather daring tea-gown, with its provocative glimpses. It was a compliment that she should waste all this wealth of subtle femininity on him. Or was she wasting it? “Debrett and the old school tie will chain you here for the week-end, however your foot progresses! Lord Aveling can’t run a country—though he wishes he could—but he can run a country house, and he lives for these house-parties, you know. The little thrill of them—the little notoriety of them—the little excitement of them—and the little things that happen in them. And, sometimes, quite big things.”
A desire swept through John to ask, “And what do you live for?” But he quelled the impulse, and asked instead:
“Are any big things going to happen this week-end?”
She regarded him quizzically for a few moments, then replied, “I shouldn’t wonder.”
She turned and nodded to the pretty maid, who had reappeared with another highly-polished little tray gleaming with yellow china. The second tray was deposited beside the first tray. As the maid departed, Nadine’s eyes followed her.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” said Nadine.
“Very,” answered John.
Two people came down the staircase. Harold Taverley and Anne. The signs of the road were no longer upon them, and both had changed to indoor clothes, but John noticed that Anne still favoured green. She was wearing a rather severe, close-cut frock that indicated without exploiting her slim boyish figure. Her dark hair was neat and smooth, and slightly waved. John gained an odd impression as she ran forward to greet Nadine that, while conceding to the moment, her real spirit was elsewhere.
“Nice to see you again, Nadine,” she exclaimed. “Wasn’t the last time Cannes?”
“Yes—drinking coffee at the Galerie Fleuries,” answered Nadine. “Did you have a good run?”
“Wonderful! You must try my new mare. She goes over everything.”
“I’d love to. But you’ll want her to-morrow?”
“Please! You can have Jill, though. We’ve still got her, and you always liked her, didn’t you?” She turned to John. “Do you ride? How’s your foot? Or are you sick of being asked? I’d be!”
“It’s the penalty of being a pampered invalid,” replied John; “and I don’t mind it at all. My foot’s fine, thank you. But I’m afraid it wouldn’t be well enough to join you to-morrow.”
“Beastly shame,” said Anne. “Never mind, we’ll fix you up with jig-saw puzzles. Let me know if I can do anything, won’t you? See you later, Nadine. Come along, Harold.”
Taverley smiled at John.
“We’d stay, but you’re being looked after,” he remarked. “Be good to him, Nadine.”
When they were alone again, Nadine frowned.
“Beastly man, that Mr. Taverley,” she observed. “He’s so hatefully nice!”
“I like him, too,” replied John. “Is niceness a vice?”
“Yes—like water. You must have something with it.”
“I imagine he’s got a lot with it.”
“Rather. All the virtues, and a perfect off-drive. And he hates me!”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t!”
“How do you know that?”
John coloured at the quick question, and at his clumsiness. He decided not to retreat.
“We talked of you,” he said. “Do you mind?”
She glanced in his cup, noted it was empty, and filled it.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she answered. “What else do people talk about but other people? But don’t tell me what Mr. Taverley said about me. Whatever it was, I am quite sure he forgave me, and so I’d have to forgive him, the beast!”
An interruption occurred. A uniformed nurse—Bragley Court could even materialise that—appeared abruptly and insisted on an application of surgical spirit. Surgical spirit during tea! But the nurse explained apologetically that she had a few minutes now, and might not have later.
“Does
