With an eloquent gesture, Sir Henry turned aside, crossed the room, and flung himself into a hitherto unoccupied armchair.
It made a loud and extremely vulgar noise.
Sir Henry, scarlet in the face, leapt to his feet and snatched up the loose cushioned seat. He exposed a still partially inflated bladder-like object, across which was printed a legend, “The Raspberry. Makes your Party go off with a Bang.” He seized it, and again, through some concealed orifice, it emitted its dreadful sound. He hurled it accurately into the fire and the stench of burning rubber filled the room.
“Well, I mean to say,” said Miss Orrincourt, “fun’s fun, but I think that kid’s getting common in her ways.”
Sir Henry walked in silence to the door, where, inevitably, he turned to deliver an exit line. “Millamant,” he said, “in the morning you will be good enough to send for my solicitor.”
The door banged. After a minute’s complete silence Troy was at last able to escape from the drawing-room.
ii
Troy was not much surprised in the morning to learn that Sir Henry was too unwell to appear, though he hoped in the afternoon to resume the usual sitting. A note on her early tea-tray informed her that Cedric would be delighted to pose in the costume if this would be of any service. She thought it might. There was the scarlet cloak to be attended to. She had half-expected a disintegration of the family forces, at least the disappearance, possibly in opposite directions, of Fenella and Paul. She had yet to learn of the Ancreds’ resilience in inter-tribal warfare. At breakfast they both appeared — Fenella, white and silent; Paul, red and silent. Pauline arrived a little later. Her attitude to her son suggested that he was ill of some not entirely respectable disease. With Fenella she adopted an air of pained antipathy and would scarcely speak to her. Millamant presided. She was less jolly than usual, but behind her anxiety, if she was indeed anxious, Troy detected a hint of complacency. There was more than a touch of condolence in her manner towards her sister-in-law, and this, Troy felt, Pauline deeply resented.
“Well, Milly,” said Pauline after a long silence, “do you propose to continue your rôle under new management?”
“I’m always rather lost, Pauline, when you adopt theatrical figures of speech.”
“Are you going to house-keep, then, for the new châtelaine?”
“I hardly expect to do so.”
“Poor Milly,” said Pauline. “It’s going to be difficult for you, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t think so. Cedric and I have always thought we’d like to have a little pied-à-terre together in London.”
“Yes,” Pauline agreed much too readily, “Cedric will have to draw in his horns a bit too, one supposes.”
“Perhaps Paul and Fenella would consider allowing me to house-keep for them,” said Millamant, with her first laugh that morning. And with an air of genuine interest she turned to them. “How are you going to manage, both of you?” she asked.
“Like any other husband and wife without money,” said Fenella. “Paul’s got his pension and I’ve got my profession. We’ll both get jobs.”
“Oh, well,” said Millamant comfortably, “perhaps after all, your grandfather—”
“We don’t want Grandfather to do anything, Aunt Milly,” said Paul quickly. “He wouldn’t anyway, of course, but we don’t want him to.”
“Dearest!” said his mother. “So hard! So bitter! I don’t know you, Paul, when you talk like that. Something”—she glanced with extraordinary distaste at Fenella—“has changed you so dreadfully.”
“Where,” asked Millamant brightly, “is Panty?”
“Where should she be if not in school?” Pauline countered with dignity. “She is not in the habit of breakfasting with us, Milly.”
“Well, you never know,” said Millamant. “She seems to get about quite a lot, doesn’t she? And, by the way, Pauline, I’ve a bone to pick with Panty myself. Someone has interfered with My Work. A large section of embroidery has been deliberately unpicked. I’d left it in the drawing-room and—”
“Panty never goes there,” cried Pauline.
“Well, I don’t know about that. She must, for instance, have been in the drawing-room last evening during dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because Sonia, as I suppose we must call her, says she sat in that chair before dinner, Pauline. She says it was perfectly normal.”
“I can’t help that, Milly. Panty did not come into the drawing-room last night at dinner-time for the very good reason that she and the other children were given their medicine then and sent early to bed. You told me yourself, Milly, that Miss Able found the medicine in the flower-room and took it straight in for Dr. Withers to give the children.”
“Oh, yes,” said Millamant. “Would you believe it, the extraordinary Sonia didn’t trouble to take it in to Miss Able, or to give Papa’s bottle to me. She merely went to the flower-room, where it seems,” said Millamant with a sniff, “orchids had been brought in for her; and dumped the lot. Miss Able hunted everywhere before she found it, and so did I.”
“T’uh,” said Pauline.
“All the same,” said Paul. “I don’t mind betting that Panty—”
“It has yet to be proved,” Pauline interrupted with spirit rather than conviction, “that Panty had anything to do with — with—”
“With the Raspberry!” said Paul, grinning. “Mother, of course she did.”
“I have reason to believe—” Pauline began.
“No, really, Mother. It’s Panty all over. Look at her record.”
“Where did she get it? I’ve never given her such a thing.”
“Another kid, I suppose, if she didn’t buy it. I’ve seen them in one of the village shops; haven’t you, Fen? I remember thinking to myself that they ought to have been sent to a rubber dump.”
“I’ve had a little talk with Panty,” said Panty’s mother obstinately, “and she promised me on her word of honour she didn’t know anything about it. I know when that child is speaking the truth, Milly. A mother always knows.”
“Honestly, Mother!” said Paul.
“I don’t care what anyone says—” Pauline began, but was interrupted by the entrance of Cedric, very smooth and elegant, and with more than a touch of smugness in his general aspect.
“Good morning, dearest Mrs. Alleyn. Good morning, my sweets,” he said. “Planning how to lay out the proverbial shilling to advantage, Paul dear? I’ve been so excited thinking up a scheme for a double wedding. It’s a teeny bit involved. The Old Person, you see, in Uncle Claude’s absence, must give Fenella away and then whisk over to the other side as First Bridegroom. I thought I might be joint Best Man and Paul could double Second Bridegroom and Sonia’s papa. It’s like a rather intricate ballet. Uncle Thomas is to be a page and Panty a flower-girl, which will give her wonderful opportunities for throwing things. And you, dearest Mama, and all the aunts shall be Dowagers-in-Waiting. I’ve invented such marvellously intimidating gowns for you.”
“Don’t be naughty,” said Millamant.
“No, but truly,” Cedric went on, bringing his plate to the table. “I do feel, you two, that you’ve managed your affairs the least bit clumsily.”
“It’s not given to all of us,” said Paul dryly, “to be quite as nimble after the main chance as you.”
“Well, I do rather flatter myself I’ve exhibited a pretty turn of low cunning,” Cedric agreed readily. “Sonia’s going to let me do her trousseau, and the Old Person said that I at least showed some family feeling. But I’m afraid, dearest Auntie Pauline, that Panty has lost ground almost irretrievably. Such a very robust sense of comedy.”