She turned to Aubyn Dale. He rejoined, “But of course. You’re so wonderfully exotic.” Mr. Merryman snorted.
Mrs. Cuddy said loudly, “I’m afraid we’re going to be spoil-sports. Mr. Cuddy can’t stay in the same room with flowers that have a heavy perfume. He’s allergic to them.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Mrs. Dillington-Blick cried. “Then, of course, they must go.” She waved her hands helplessly.
“I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Mrs. Cuddy announced. “We don’t want to make things uncomfortable. We were going to take a turn on deck anyway. Weren’t we, dear?”
Alleyn asked, “Do you suffer from hay fever, Mr. Cuddy?”
Mrs. Cuddy answered for her husband. “Not exactly hay fever, is it, dear? He just comes over queer.”
“Extraordinary,” Alleyn murmured.
“Well, it’s quite awkward sometimes.”
“At weddings and funerals, for instance, it must be.”
“Well, on our silver wedding some of the gentlemen from Mr. Cuddy’s lodge brought us a gorgeous mixed booky of hot-house flowers and he had to say how much he appreciated it and all the time he was feeling peculiar and when they’d gone he said, ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s me or the booky,’ and we live opposite a hospital so he took them across and had to go for a long walk afterwards to get over it, didn’t you, dear?”
“Your silver wedding,” Alleyn said, and smiled at Mrs. Cuddy. “You’re not going to tell us you’ve been married twenty-five years!”
“Twenty-five years and eleven days to be exact. Haven’t we, dear?”
“That’s correct, dear.”
“He’s turning colour,” Mrs. Cuddy said, exhibiting her husband with an air of triumph. “Come on, love. Walky-walky.”
Mr. Cuddy seemed unable to look away from Mrs. Dillington-Blick. He said, “I don’t notice the perfume too heavy. It isn’t affecting me.”
“That’s what you say,” his wife replied, ominously bluff. “You come into the fresh air, my man.” She took his arm and turned him towards the glass doors that gave on to the deck. She opened them. Cold salt air poured into the heated room, and the sound of the sea and of the ship’s engines. The Cuddys went out. Mr. Cuddy shut the doors and could be seen looking back into the room. His wife removed him and they walked away, their grey hair lifting in the wind.
“They’ll die of cold!” Brigid exclaimed. “No coats or hats.”.
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Dillington-Blick lamented and appealed in turn to the men. “And I expect it’s all my fault.” They murmured severally.
Mr. McAngus, who had peeped into the passage, confided, “It’s all right. They’ve come in by the side door and I think they’ve gone to their cabin.” He sniffed timidly at the flowers, gave a small apologetic laugh and made a little bobbing movement to and from Mrs. Dillington-Blick. “I think we’re all most awfully lucky,” he ventured. He then went out into the passage, putting on his hat as he did so.
“That poor creature dyes its hair,” Mr. Merryman observed calmly.
“Oh, come!” Father Jourdain protested and gave Alleyn a helpless look. “I seem,” he said under his breath, “to be saying nothing but ‘Oh, come,’ A maddening observation.”
Mrs. Dillington-Blick blossomed at Mr. Merryman: “Aren’t you naughty!” She laughed and appealed to Aubyn Dale: “Not true. Is it?”
“I honestly can’t see, you know, that if he does dye his hair, it’s anybody’s business but his,” Dale said, and gave Mr. Merryman his celebrated smile. “Can you?” he said.
“I entirely agree with you,” Mr. Merryman rejoined, grinning like a monkey. “I must apologize. In point of fact I abominate the public elucidation of private foibles.”
Dale turned pale and said nothing.
“Let us talk about flowers instead,” Mr. Merryman suggested and beamed through his spectacles upon the company.
Mrs. Dillington-Blick at once began to do so. She was supported, unexpectedly, by Miss Abbott. Evidently they were both experienced gardeners. Dale listened with a stationary smile. Alleyn saw him order himself a second double brandy.
“I suppose,” Alleyn remarked generally, “everybody has a favourite flower.”
Mrs. Dillington-Blick moved into a position from which she could see him. “Hullo, you!” she exclaimed jollily. “But of course they have. Mine’s magnolias.”
“What are yours?” Tim Makepiece asked Brigid.
“Distressingly obvious — roses.”
“Lilies,” Father Jourdain smiled, “which may also be obvious.”
“Easter?” Miss Abbott barked.
“Exactly.”
“What about you?” Alleyn asked Tim.
“The hop,” he said cheerfully.
Alleyn grinned. “There you are. It’s all a matter of association. Mine’s lilac and throws back to a pleasant childhood memory. But if beer happened to make you sick or my nanny, whom I detested, had worn lilac in her nankeen bosom or Father Jourdain associated lilies with death, we’d have all hated the sight and smell of these respective flowers.”
Mr. Merryman looked with pity at him. “Not,” he said, “a remarkably felicitous exposition of a somewhat elementary proposition, but, as far as it goes, unexceptionable.”
Alleyn bowed. “Have you, sir,” he asked, “a preference?”
“None, none. The topic, I confess, does not excite me.”
“I think it’s a heavenly topic,” Mrs. Dillington-Blick cried. “But then I adore finding out about People and their preferences.” She turned to Dale and at once his smile reprinted itself. “Tell me your taste in flowers,” she said, “and I’ll tell you your type in ladies. Come clean, now. Your favorite flower? Or shall I guess?”
“Agapanthas?” Mr. Merryman loudly suggested. Dale clapped his glass down on the bar and walked out of the room.
“Now, look here, Mr. Merryman!” Father Jourdain said and rose to his feet.
Mr. Merryman opened his eyes very wide and pursed his lips. “What’s up?” he asked.
“You know perfectly well what’s up. You’re an extremely naughty little man and although it’s none of my business I think fit to tell you so.”
Far from disconcerting Mr. Merryman, this more or less public rebuke appeared to afford him enjoyment. He clapped his hands lightly, slapped them on his knees and broke into elfish laughter.
“If you’ll take my advice,” Father Jourdain continued, “you will apologize to Mr. Dale.”
Mr. Merryman rose, bowed, and observed in an extremely highfalutin manner, “Consilia firmiora sunt de divinis locis.”
The priest turned red.
Alleyn, who didn’t see why Mr. Merryman should be allowed to make a corner in pedantry, racked his own brains for a suitable tag. “Consilium inveniunt multi sed docti explicant, however,” he said.
“Dear me!” Mr. Merryman observed. “How often one has cause to remark that a platitude sounds none the better for being uttered in an antique tongue. I shall now address myself to my postprandial nap.”
He trotted towards the door, paused for a moment to stare at Mrs. Dillington-Blick’s pearls, and then went out.
“For pity’s sake!” she ejaculated. “What is all this! What’s happening? What’s the matter with Aubyn Dale? Why agapanthas?”
“Can it be possible,” Tim Makepiece said, “that you don’t know about Lady Agatha’s umbilicus globular and the hyacinths on the turdy stable?” and he retold the story of Aubyn Dale’s misfortunes.
“How frightful!” Mrs. Dillington-Blick exclaimed, laughing until she cried. “How too tragically frightful! And how naughty of Mr. Merryman.”