Dorinda came back out of the past. It was dead, and Aunt Mary was dead. But was the Wicked Uncle dead too-that was the question. It wasn’t a question to which she had any answer. His last appearance had been about seven years ago, when he had blown in and blown out again, leaving Aunt Mary noticeably more economical. She had rather taken it for granted that he was dead because he hadn’t come back, but that might only have been because he thought that there wasn’t any more to be had. As a matter of fact there was the fifty pounds a year which Dorinda had now, but he mightn’t have known about it, and the rest of what Aunt Mary had being an annuity, he couldn’t, even with the worst intentions in the world, put it in his pocket and walk off with it.
She stared at the photograph. It was the exact twin of the one in Aunt Mary’s album. It showed a good-looking man with dark hair and very dark dancing eyes. The hair curled a little too visibly. The teeth showed in a smile which everyone who knew him had considered charming. Dorinda wondered when it had been taken. Not later than about fifteen years ago, because after that he only came to get what he could out of Aunt Mary, and he wouldn’t have gone to a local photographer and given her a copy. She thought it must have been done when they were living at Norwood. Before the Row.
It was a long way from the time before the Row and Charles Rowbecker and Son to Marty’s toy-cupboard and the Mill House. The most frightening idea came suddenly into her head. Suppose the Wicked Uncle was Martin Oakley. She was too sensible to encourage it, but it lurked. Hastily assembling reasons to disprove it, she recalled that Nurse had given the photograph no name. If it was a picture of Martin Oakley, wouldn’t she have said, “What are you doing with your father’s picture all crumpled up like that?” She stopped feeling sick and her spirits began to rise. After all, the very worst that could happen would be that she might have to leave her job. But she wouldn’t have to-she felt quite reassured about that. Everyone has got old photograph albums full of junk. Aunt Mary had forgotten the names of a lot of the people in hers. Uncle Glen’s photograph was neither here nor there. It hadn’t the slightest importance. It was just something out of a junkery. She was wearing a dress with large patch pockets. She slipped the photograph into one of them and went down.
It ought to have been the easiest thing in the world to walk into the boudoir, slap the photograph down in front of Mrs. Oakley, and say, “Marty had this knocking about in his toy-cupboard. I told Nurse I’d bring it down.” But it wasn’t. When she thought about doing it she couldn’t even open the door and go in. It was too stupid. If Doris, who was one of the housemaids, hadn’t come along the passage, she might have just stuck there and grown into the floor. As it was, she got herself inside the room and found it empty. Voices from the bedroom next door proclaimed that Mrs. Oakley was dressing for dinner.
With a feeling of relief, Dorinda put the photograph down upon a gimcrack writing-table and ran upstairs to assume the despised blue dress.
When she came down again Mrs. Oakley had exchanged the sofa for the most comfortable of the armchairs. Her fluffy draperies were still pink, but of a different shade. The photograph was nowhere to be seen. No reference was made to it, which suited Dorinda very well. Anyone who had known Glen Porteous might have just as good reasons as she had herself for not wanting to talk about him.
They had a delightful meal on a tray. Dorinda told herself that there were going to be far too many meals, and all much too good, but it was a very pleasing change after the economical dullness of the food at the Heather Club.
They had no more than finished dinner, when the telephone bell rang. As it had been explained to her that her most important duty was to stand between Mrs. Oakley and the telephone, Dorinda went to it. The instrument stood upon the writing-table where she had put the photograph. She lifted the receiver and said,
“Mrs. Oakley’s secretary speaking.”
A man’s voice said, “Will you tell Mrs. Oakley that Gregory Porlock would like to speak to her?”
She replaced the receiver and repeated the request. With her back to her, Mrs. Oakley murmured,
“I don’t speak to anyone except Martin or someone I know very well indeed-never, never, never. He must talk to you, and you can tell me what he says.”
Dorinda took up the receiver again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Porlock-Mrs. Oakley asks me to explain that she never speaks on the telephone. I’m new, or I should have known. If you will tell me what you want to say, I will pass it on.”
She heard Mr. Porlock smother a laugh. Well, that was better than getting his back up. He said,
“Will you tell her I saw her husband this afternoon? I’m having a week-end party, and he promised that he and his wife would join us for dinner on Saturday night. He said it would be all right, but as I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Oakley yet I don’t want to seem to be taking too much for granted.”
Dorinda repeated this, and received the fretful reply that if Martin had said they would go, she supposed they would have to. The words were so barely audible that there were grounds for hoping that they would not carry as far as the Grange.
Dorinda conveyed a polite acceptance, and heard Mr. Porlock say, “Splendid!”
The word rang a bell somewhere. It reminded her of something or someone in one of those flashes which are so vivid whilst they last, and so impossible to recall when they are gone. She came out of a dizzying moment to hear him say,
“Now this is where I ought to be talking to Mrs. Oakley, because I want to ask her to be very kind and bring you along. Miss Brown, isn’t it?… Yes, I thought that was what Martin Oakley said-Miss Dorinda Brown. Now will you be as persuasive as I should be myself and tell Mrs. Oakley that I am a lady short and I am particularly anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Dorinda fixed a grave, frowning gaze upon the instrument. She considered Mr. Porlock’s manner to be on the familiar side. She repeated his invitation in the baldest possible way.
“He says he is a woman short on Saturday, and will you bring me. He seems to have fixed it up with Mr. Oakley.”
There was a murmur of assent. Dorinda put it into words, again heard Gregory Porlock say, “Splendid!” and hung up.
When she came back to her seat she found herself the object of Mrs. Oakley’s attention.
“What about an evening dress, Miss Brown? Have you one that will do?”
There really must be something wrong about that wretched blue dress, because Mrs. Oakley simply didn’t consider it for a moment.
“Oh, no-that was what I was afraid of. Martin telephoned while I was dressing, and he said I must see that you had something suitable.”
Dorinda wouldn’t have been human if she had been pleased. She said in a restrained voice,
“There is no need for me to go.”
Mrs. Oakley’s face puckered up as if she were going to cry.
“Oh dear-now you are offended-and Martin will say I have no tact And it isn’t that I haven’t really, but I do think being tactful is the most utterly exhausting thing, and my nerves won’t stand it. It will be so much simpler if you just won’t be offended. Because of course we couldn’t expect you to have clothes which you didn’t know you were going to want. And of course we shouldn’t expect you to be put to any expense, if you know what I mean.”