After luncheon Mrs. Beaver came across to their table. ``I must just come and speak to you though I'm in a great hurry. It's so long since we met and John has been telling me about a delightful week-end he had with you.''
``It was very quiet.''
``That's just what he loves. Poor boy he gets rushed off his feet in London. Tell me, Lady Brenda, is it true you are looking for a flat, because I think I've got just the place for you? It's being done up now and will be ready well before Christmas.'' She looked at her watch. ``Oh dear, I' must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it.''
``I could ... `` said Brenda doubtfully.
``Then do. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live.'' She told her and left the table. ``What's all this about a flat?'' Marjorie asked.
``Oh just something I thought of ...''
That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. ``Probably not, if he's so keen on going about,'' she thought; `''and, anyhow, what's the sense? ...''
But he was there, in spite of two other invitations.
She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs. Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long felt need, Mrs. Beaver said.
``I'll ask my husband and let you know.''
``You will let me know soon, won't you, because everyone will be wanting one.''
``I'll let you know very soon.''
When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her.
``I'm sure you want to go away.''
``No, really.''
``I've got lots to read.''
``I want to stay.''
``It's very sweet of you.'' Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, ``I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?''
Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them ... if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant ... three pounds at least ... and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home ... and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening ... ``I wish I could,'' he said, ``but I've promised to dine out for it.''
Brenda had observed his hesitation. ``I was afraid you would have.''
``But we'll meet there.''
``Yes, if I go.''
``I wish I could have taken you.''
``It's quite all right ... I just wondered.''
The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, ``Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now.''
``Yes, run along. Thank you for coming.''
He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. ``Why should he want to take me, poor boy?'' she thought, ``only he might have done it better.''
``Barnardo case?''
Brenda nodded. ``Down and out,'' she said, ``sunk, right under.'' She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing.
``Good day?''
She nodded. ``Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone setter. That's all.''
``You know I wish you'd give up these day trips to London. They're far too much for you.''
``Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all ... and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move.''
Next day a telegram came from Beaver. Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free.
She replied: Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda.
Up till then they had avoided Christian names.
``You seem in wonderful spirits today,'' Tony remarked.
``I feel big. I think it's Mr. Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything.''
Three
``Where's mummy gone?''
``London.''
``Why?''
``Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party.''
``Is she nice?''
``Mummy thinks so. I don't.''
``Why?''
``Because she looks like a monkey.''
``I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says.''
They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. ``Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?''
``Oh, nuts and thins.''
``Nuts and what things?''
``Different kinds of nuts.''
For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by.
``You mustn't say things like that about real people,'' said nanny. ``Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it.''
``She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it.''
Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. ``Lovely, darling, new?''
``Fairly.''
Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was dining. (``Look here are you absolutely sure you can't make Alan come tonight?'' ``Absolutely. He's got a meeting in Camberwell. He may not even come to Polly's.'' ``Is there any man you can bring?'' ``Can't think of anybody.'' ``Well we shall have to be one short, that's all. I can't think what's happened tonight. I rang up John Beaver but even he won't come.'')
``You know,'' said Marjorie, putting down the telephone, ``you're causing a great deal of trouble. You've taken London's only spare man.''
``Oh dear, I didn't realize ...''
Beaver arrived at quarter to nine in a state of high self-approval; he had refused two invitations to dinner while dressing that evening; he had cashed a cheque for ten pounds at his club; he had booked a divan table at Espinosa's. It was almost the first time in his life that he had taken anyone out to dinner, but he knew perfectly how it was done.
``I must see your Mr. Beaver properly,'' said Marjorie. ``Let's make him take off his coat and drink something.''
The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age.
`Oh; he's not so bad, your Mr. Beaver,' Marjorie's look seemed to say, `not by any means,' and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine.