“Extraordinary thing. Well come on, Molly. Good night, Grainger. Take care of Mrs. Lyne. I think she ought to see a doctor.”
“I’ll take care of her,” said Grainger.
They went down in the lift together, in silence, each full of thought. When they reached the hall Peter said, “Well, that was rum.”
“Very rum.”
“You know,” said Peter, “if it had been anyone else but Angela, I should have thought she was tight.”
“Darling, she was plastered.”
“Are you sure?”
“My dear, stinko paralytico.”
“Well, I don’t know what to think. It certainly looked like it. But Angela…besides her maid said she hadn’t been out all the evening. I mean to say people don’t get tight alone.”
Suddenly Molly put her arms round Peter’s neck and kissed him warmly. “Bless you,” she said. “Now we’ll go to that cinema.”
It was the first time anyone had ever kissed Peter like that. He was so surprised that in the taxi he made no attempt to follow it up; so surprised that he thought about nothing else all through the film. “God Save the King” brought him back to reality with a jolt. He was still pensive while he led Molly to supper. It was hysteria, he decided; the girl was naturally upset at the scene they had been through. She’s probably frightfully embarrassed about it now; best not to refer to it.
But Molly was not prepared to let the matter drop.
“Oysters,” she said. “Only a dozen. Nothing else,” and then, though the waiter was still beside her, “Were you surprised when I kissed you just now?”
“No,” said Peter hastily, “certainly not. Not at all.”
“Not at all? You mean to say you expected me to?”
“No, no. Of course not. You know what I mean.”
“I certainly don’t. I think it’s very conceited of you not to be surprised. Do you always have this effect on girls, or is it just the uniform?”
“Molly, don’t be a beast. If you must know, I was surprised.”
“And shocked?”
“No, just surprised.”
“Yes,” said Molly, seeing it was not kind to tease him any more. “I was surprised, too. I’ve been wondering about it in the cinema.”
“So have I,” said Peter.
“That’s how I like you,” said Molly, as though she were a photographer catching a happy expression. She saw the likeness herself and added, “Hold it.”
“Really, Molly, I don’t understand you a bit tonight.”
“Oh but you must, really you must, Peter. I’m sure you were a fascinating little boy.”
“Come to think of it, I believe I was.”
“You mustn’t ever try playing the old rip again, Peter. Not with me, at any rate. Now don’t pretend you don’t understand that. I like you puzzled, Peter, but not absolutely cretinous. You know, I nearly despaired of you tonight. You would go on bucking about what a gay dog you’d been. I thought I could never go through with it.”
“Through with what?”
“Marrying you. Mother’s terribly keen I should, though I can’t think why. I should have thought from her point of view you were about the end. But no, nothing else would do but that I must marry you. So I’ve tried to be good and I’ve let you bound away about the good old days till I thought I should have to pour something on your head. Thought I couldn’t bear it any more and I’d decided to tell Mother it was off. Then we met Mrs. Lyne and everything was all right.”
“It seemed awfully awkward to me.”
“Of course it did. You looked like a little boy at his private school when his father has come to the sports in the wrong kind of hat. An adorable little boy.”
“Well,” said Peter, “I suppose as long as you’re satisfied…”
“Yes, I think ‘satisfied’ is the word. You’ll do. And Sarah and Betty’ll be as sick as cats.”
“How did you decide?” asked Margot, when Peter told her of his engagement.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t think I did. Molly decided.”
“Yes, that’s usually the way. Now I suppose I shall have to do something friendly about that ass Emma Granchester.”
“I really know Lady Metroland very little,” said Lady Granchester. “But I suppose now I must invite her to luncheon. I’m afraid she’s far too smart for us.” And by “smart” Lady Granchester meant nothing at all complimentary.
But the mothers met and decided on an immediate marriage.
The news of Peter’s engagement was not unexpected and, even had it come as a surprise, would have been eclipsed in interest by the story of Angela Lyne’s uncharacteristic behaviour at the cinema. Peter and Molly, before parting that night, had resolved to tell no one of the incident; a renunciation from which each made certain implicit reservations. Peter told Margot because he thought she ought to do something about it, Basil because he was still dubious about the true explanation of the mystery and thought that Basil, if anyone could, would throw light on it, and three members of Bratt’s because he happened to run into them at the bar next morning when his mind was still full of the matter. Molly told her two sisters and Lady Sarah from long habit, because whenever she promised secrecy in any matter she meant, even at the time, to tell these three. These initiates in their turn told their cronies until it was widely known that the temperate, cynical, aloof, impeccably dressed, sharply dignified Mrs. Lyne Mrs. Lyne who never “went out” in a general sense but lived in a rarefied and enviable coterie Mrs. Lyne whose conversation was that of a highly intelligent man, who always cleverly kept out of the gossip columns and picture papers, who for fifteen years had set a high and wholly individual standard of all that Americans meant by “poise”; this almost proverbial lady had been picked up by Peter in the gutter where she had been thrown struggling by two bouncers from the cinema where she had created a drunken disturbance.
It could scarcely have been more surprising had it been Mrs. Stitch herself. It was indeed barely credible and many refused to believe it. Drugs possibly, they conceded, but Drink was out of the question. What Parsnip and Pimpernell were to the intelligentsia, Mrs. Lyne and the bottle became to the fashionable world: topic number one.
They were still topic number one three weeks later at Peter’s wedding. Basil persuaded Angela to come to the little party with which Lady Granchester honoured the occasion.
He had gone round to see her when Peter told him the news; not immediately, but within twenty-four hours of hearing it. He found her up and dressed, but indefinably raffish in appearance; her make-up was haphazard and rather garish, like a later Utrillo.
“Angela, you look awful.”
“Yes, darling, I feel awful. You’re in the Army!”
“No, the War Office.”
She began talking intensely and rather wildly about the French. Presently she said, “I must leave you for a minute,” and went into her bedroom. She came back half a minute later with an abstracted, little smile; the inwardly happy smile of a tired old nun almost. There was a difference.
“Angela,” said Basil, “if you want a drink you might drink fair with a chap.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
Basil was shocked. There had never been any humbug about Angela before, none where he was concerned anyway.
“Oh, come off it,” he said.
Angela came off it. She began to weep.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Basil.
He went into her bedroom and helped himself to whisky from the bottle by the bed.
“Peter was here the other evening with some girl. I suppose they’ve told everyone.”
“He told me. Why don’t you switch to rum? It’s much better for you.”
“Is it? I don’t think I’ve ever tasted it. Should I like it?”
“I’ll send you some round. When did you start on this bat?”
There was no humbug about Angela now. “Oh, weeks ago.”
“It’s not a bit like you.”