“Dear me,” said Harriet.
“Yes, miss. We was in rest at the time, and next morning, when the sergeant-major falls us in for parade-coo, lummy! we was a pair o’ family portraits. The sergeant-major-Sergeant-Major Toop, that was, ’im wot got married like I was sayin’-’e didn’t say nothin’-’e knew. And the adjutant, ’e knew too, and ’e didn’t say nothin’ neither. And blest if, in the middle of it all we don’t see the Major comin’ strollin’ out. So the adjutant forms us up into line, and I stands there at attention, ’oping as ’Uggins’s face looked worse nor what mine did. ‘Mornin’,’ says the Major; and the adjutant and Sergeant Major Toop says, ‘Morning, sir.’ So ’e starts to chat casual-like to the sergeant-major, and I see ’is eye goin’ up and down the line. ‘Sergeant-major!’ says he, all of a sudden. ‘Sir!’ says the sergeant-major. ‘What’s that man there been doin’ to ’imself?’ says ’e, meanin’ me. ‘Sir?’ says the sergeant-major, starin’ at me like ‘e was surprised to see me. ‘Looks as if he’d had a nasty accident,’ says the Major. ‘And what about that other fellow? Don’t like to see that sort of thing. Not smart. Fall ’ em out.’ So the sergeant-major falls us both out. ‘H’m,’ says the Major, ‘I see. What’s this man’s name?’ ‘Padgett, sir,’ says the sergeant-major. ‘Oh,’ says he. ‘Well, Padgett, what have you been doing to get yourself into a mess like that?’ ‘Fell over a bucket, sir,’ says I, starin’ ’ard over ’is shoulder with the only eye I could see out of, ‘Bucket?’ says ’e, ‘very awkward things, buckets. And this other man-I suppose he trod on the mop, eh, sergeant-major?’ ‘Major wants to know if you trod on the mop,’ says Sergeant-Major Toop. ‘Yessir,’ says ’Uggins, talkin’ like ’is mouth ’urt ’im. ‘Well,’ says the Major, ‘when you’ve got this lot dismissed, give these two men a bucket and a mop apiece and put ’em on fatigue. That’ll learn ’em to ’andle these dangerous implements.’ ‘Yessir,’ says Sergeant-Major Toop. ‘Carry on,’ says the Major. So we carries on. ’Uggins says to me arterwards, ‘D’you think ’e knew?’ ‘Knew?’ says I, ‘course ’e knew. Ain’t much ’e don’t know.’ Arter that, ’Uggins kep’ ’is epithets to ’isself.”
Harriet expressed due appreciation of this anecdote, which was delivered with a great deal of gusto, and took leave of Padgett. For some reason, this affair of a mop and a bucket seemed to have made Padgett Peter’s slave for life. Men were very odd.
There was nobody under the Hall arches as she returned, but as she passed the West end of the Chapel, she thought she saw something dark pass like a shadow into the Fellows’ Garden. She followed it. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the dimness of the summer night and she could see the figure walking swiftly up and down, up and down, and hear the rustle of its long skirt upon the grass.
There was only one person in College who had worn a trailing frock that evening, and that was Miss Hillyard. She walked in the Fellows’ Garden for an hour and a half.
18
Go tell that witty fellow, my godson, to get home. It is no season to fool it here!
– QUEEN ELIZABETH
Lor’!” said the Dean.
She gazed with interest from the Senior Common Room window, teacup in hand.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Miss Allison.
“ Who is that incredibly beautiful young man?”
“Flaxman’s fiancé, I expect, isn’t it?”
“A beautiful young man?” said Miss Pyke. “I should like to see him.” She moved to the window.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Dean. “I know Flaxman’s Byron by heart. This is an ash-blond in a House blazer.”
“Oh, dear me!” said Miss Pyke. “Apollo Belvedere in spotless flannels. He appears to be unattached. Remarkable.”
Harriet put down her cup and rose from the depths of the largest armchair.
“Perhaps he belongs to that bunch playing tennis,” hazarded Miss Allison.
“Little Cooke’s scrubby friends? My dear!”
“Why all the excitement, anyway?” asked Miss Hillyard.
“Beautiful young men are always exciting,” said the Dean.
“That,” said Harriet, at length getting a glimpse of the wonder-youth over Miss Pyke’s shoulder, “is Viscount Saint-George.”
“Another of your aristocratic friends?” asked Miss Barton.
“His nephew,” replied Harriet; not very coherently.
“Oh!” said Miss Barton. “Well, I don’t see why you need all gape at him like a lot of schoolgirls.”
She crossed over to the table, cut herself a slice of cake and glanced casually out of the farther window.
Lord Saint-George stood, with a careless air of owning the place, at the corner of the Library Wing, watching a game of tennis being played between two bare-backed students and two young men whose shirts kept on escaping from their belts. Growing tired of this, he sauntered past the windows towards Queen Elizabeth, his eye roving over a group of Shrewsburians a-sprawl under the beeches, like that of a young Sultan inspecting a rather unpromising consignment of Circassian slaves.
“Supercilious little beast!” thought Harriet; and wondered if he was looking for her. If he was, he could wait, or ask properly at the Lodge.
“Oho!” said the Dean. “So that’s how the milk got into the coconut!”
From the door of the Library Wing there issued slowly Miss de Vine, and behind her, grave and deferential, Lord Peter Wimsey. They skirted the tennis-court in earnest conversation. Lord Saint-George, viewing them from afar, advanced to meet them. They joined forces on the path. They stood for a little time talking. They moved away towards the Lodge.
“Dear me!” said the Dean. “Abduction of Helen de Vine by Paris and Hector.”
“No, no,” said Miss Pyke. “Paris was the brother of Hector, not his nephew. I do not think he had any uncles.”
“Talking of uncles,” said the Dean, “is it true. Miss Hillyard, that Richard III-I thought she was here.”
“She was here,” said Harriet.
“Helen is being returned to us,” said the Dean. “The siege of Troy is postponed.”
The trio were returning again up the path. Half-way along Miss de Vine took leave of the two men and returned towards her own room.
At that moment, the watchers in the S.C.R. were petrified to behold a portent. Miss Hillyard emerged from the foot of the Hall stair, bore down upon the uncle and nephew, addressed them, cut Lord Peter neatly off from his convoy and towed him firmly away towards the New Quad.
“Glory alleluia!” said the Dean. “Hadn’t you better go out and rescue your young friend? He’s been deserted again.”
“You could offer him a cup of tea,” suggested Miss Pyke. “It would be an agreeable diversion for us.”
“I’m surprised at you, Miss Pyke,” said Miss Barton. “No man is safe from women like you.”
“Now, where have I heard that sentiment before?” said the Dean.
“In one of the Poison-letters,” said Harriet.
“If you’re suggesting-” began Miss Barton.
“I’m only suggesting,” said the Dean, “that it’s a bit of a cliché.”
“I meant it for a joke,” retorted Miss Barton, angrily. “Some people have no sense of humour.”
She went out and slammed the door. Lord Saint-George had wandered back and was sitting in the loggia leading up to the Library. He rose politely as Miss Barton stalked past him on the way to her room, and made some remark, to which the Fellow replied briefly, but with a smile.
“Insinuating men, these Wimseys,” said the Dean. “Vamping the S.C.R. right and left.”