“How can we tell, dear, when she doesn’t write her name? That’s what I mean when I say we would rather she put in a little note as usual.”
“It’s not her writing. Green ink and loud flourishes! Ridiculous.”
“I suppose she wanted to puzzle us.”
Colonel Claire suddenly walked away, looking miserable.
“Mayn’t we see the dress?” asked Gaunt.
Barbara drew it from the box and sheets of tissue-paper fell from it as she held it up. The three stars shone again in the folds of the skirt. It was a beautifully simple dress.
“But it’s charming,” Gaunt said. “It couldn’t be better. Do you likeit?”
“Like it?” Barbara looked at him and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s so beautiful,” she said, “that I can’t believe it’s true.”
“There are more things in the box, aren’t there? Shall I hold the dress?”
He took it from her and she knelt on the chair, exploring feverishly. Dikon, whose orders had been to give Sarah Snappe carte-blanche, saw that she had taken him at his word. The shell-coloured satin was dull and heavy and the lace delicately rich. There seemed to be a complete set of garments. Barbara folded them back, lifted an extraordinarily pert and scanty object, turned crimson in the face and hurriedly replaced it. Her mother stepped between her and Gaunt. “Wouldn’t it be best if you took your parcel indoors, dear?” she said with poise. Barbara blundered through the door with the box and, to her mother’s evident dismay, Gaunt followed, holding the dress. A curious scene was enacted in the dining-room. Barbara hesitated between rapture and embarrassment, as Gaunt actually began to inspect the contents of the box while Mrs. Claire attempted to catch his attention with a distracted résumé of the distant Wynne’s dual office of aunt and godmother, Dikon looked on, and Simon read the morning paper. The smaller boxes were found to contain shoes and stockings. “Bless my soul,” said Gaunt lightly. “It’s a trousseau.”
Colonel Claire appeared briefly in the doorway. “It must be James,” he said, and walked away again, quickly.
“Uncle James!” cried Barbara. “Mother, could it be Uncle James?”
“Perhaps Wynne wrote to James,” began her mother, and Simon said from behind his paper: “She doesn’t know him.”
“She knows of him,” said Mrs. Claire gravely.
“You’ve got that telegram in your hand, Mum,” said Simon. “Why don’t you read it? It might have something to do with Barbie’s clothes.”
They all stared at her while she read the telegram. Her expression suggested astonishment, followed by the liveliest consternation. “Oh, no,” she cried out at last. “We can’t have another. Oh dear!”
“What’s up?” asked Simon.
“It’s from a Mr. Septimus Falls. He says he’s got lumbago and is coming for a fortnight. What am I to do?”
“Put him off.”
“I can’t. There’s no address. It just says ‘Kindly reserve single room Friday and arrange treatment lumbago staying fortnight Septimus Falls.’ Friday. Friday!” wailed Mrs. Claire. “What are we to do? That’s to-day.”
Mr. Septimus Falls arrived by train and taxi at 4:30, within a few minutes of Dr. Ackrington, who picked up his own car in Harpoon. By some Herculean effort the Claires had made ready for Mr. Falls. Simon moved into his cabin, Barbara moved into Simon’s room, Barbara’s room was made ready for Mr. Falls. He turned out to be a middle-aged Englishman, tall but bent forward at a wooden angle and leaning heavily on his stick. He was good-looking, well-mannered, and inclined to be bookishly facetious.
“I’m so sorry not to give you longer warning,” said Mr. Falls, grunting slightly as he came up the steps. “But this wretched incubus of a disease came upon me quite suddenly yesterday evening. I happened to see your advertisement in the paper and the doctor I consulted agreed that I should try thermal treatment.”
“But we have no advertisement in the papers,” said Mrs. Claire.
“I assure you I saw one. Unless, by any frightful chance, I’m come to the wrong Wai-ata-tapu Hot Springs. Your name is Questing, I hope?”
Mrs. Claire turned pink and replied gently: “My name is Claire, but you have made no other mistake. May I help you to your room?”
He apologized and thanked her, but added that he could still totter under his own steam. He seemed to be delighted with the dubious amenities of Barbara’s room. “I can’t tell you,” he said in a friendly manner, “how deeply I have grown to detest suites. I have been living in hotels for six months and have become so moulded to the en suite tradition that I assure you I have quite a struggle before I can bring myself to wear a spotted tie with a striped suit. It makes everything very difficult. Now this — ” he looked at Barbara’s pieces of furniture, which, under the brief influence of a domestic magazine, she had painted severally in the primary colours — “this will restore me to normal in no time.”
The taxi driver brought his luggage, which was of two sorts. Three extremely new suitcases consorted with a solitary small one which was much worn and covered with labels. Mrs. Claire had never seen so many labels. In addition to partially removed records of English and continental hotels, New Zealand place names jostled each other over the lid. He followed her glance and said: “You are thinking that I am ‘Monsieur Traveller, one who would disable all the benefits of his own country,’ and so forth. The fact is the evil brute got lost and has followed some other Falls all over the country. Would you care for the evening paper? The news, alas, is as usual.”
She thanked him confusedly, and retired with the paper to the verandah where she found her brother in angry consultation with Barbara. Dikon stood diffidently in the background.
“Well, old boy,” said Mrs. Claire, and kissed him warmly. “Lovely to have you with us again.”
“No need to cry over me. I haven’t been to the South Pole,” said Dr. Ackrington, but he returned her kiss, and in the next second attacked his niece. “Will you stop making faces at me? Am I in the habit of lying? Why should I bestow raiment upon you, you silly girl?”
“But truly, Uncle James? Word of honour?”
“I believe he knows something about it!” Mrs. Claire exclaimed very archly. “Weren’t we silly-billies? We thought of a fairy godmother, but we never guessed it might be a fairy godfather at work, did we? Dear James,” and she kissed him again. “But you shouldn’t.”
“Merciful Creator,” apostrophized Dr. Ackrington, “do I look like a fairy! Is it likely that I, who for the past decade have urged upon this insane household the virtues of economy, and investment — is it likely that I should madly lavish large sums of money upon feminine garments? And pray, Agnes, why are you gaping at that paper? Surely you didn’t expect the war news to be anything but disastrous?”
Mrs. Claire gave him the paper and pointed silently to a paragraph in the advertisement columns. Barbara read over his shoulder —
THE SPA
Wai-ata-tapu Hot Springs
Visit the miraculous health-giving thermal fairyland of the North. Astounding cures wrought by unique chemical properties of amazing pools. Delightful surroundings. Homelike residential private hotel. Every comfort and attention. Medical supervision. Under new management.
M. Questing
The paper shook in Dr. Ackrington’s hand, but he said nothing. His sister pointed to the personal column.
“Mr. Geoffrey Gaunt, the famous English actor, is at present a guest at Wai-ata-tapu Spa. He is accompanied by Mr. Dikon Bell, his private secretary.”