If a criticism could have been made of the tone in which he spoke it was that it resembled rather too closely that of a governess of rigid ethical views addressing one of her young charges upon whom suspicion of stealing jam has rested, and Sally gave a little gasp. Her full height was not much but, such as it was, she drew herself to it. She had decided that cold dignity was what the situation demanded.
"I beg your pardon?"
"And well you may, if it's true. Is it true?''
"Perfectly true. May I ask what business it is of yours?"
"That," said Joss, more like a governess than ever, "is one of the silliest questions I ever heard. Considering that I'm going to marry you myself."
"Oh. I didn't know that."
"Well, you know it now. Why, good lord, we were made for each other. I spotted it the minute you came into J. B. Duff's office. You don't mean you didn't get it too? Why, it stuck out a mile. There were you and there was I, and there we were, so to speak. My poor young fathead, I should have thought you would have got onto it right away."
Sally, who had relaxed, for it is a strain on the muscles drawing yourself to your full height, drew herself to her full height again.
"We are not amused," she said coldly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I was merely trying to point out that you are not being a bit funny.
Joss stared.
"Funny? Of course I'm not being funny. What on earth would I want to be funny for?"
"Do you really want me to believe that you are serious?"
"Of course I m serious."
"You realize, I suppose, that you've only seen me twice in your life?"
"Three times-and once would have been ample. What did you think I meant by all those hints I dropped about falling in love at first sight? People do fall in love at first sight, don't they? Look at Romeo. Look at Chibnall. He went into the Rose and Crown one morning, a heart-free butler with not a thing on his mind except the thought of the pot of beer he was going to order, and there was a girl with copper-coloured hair behind the bar, and their eyes met, and it seemed to Chibnall as if something had gone all over him like. 'That's the one!' he said to himself, and that's what I said when you came into J. B. Duff's office. I knew in an instant that we had been destined for one another since the beginning of time. I loved you the moment I saw you. I worshipped you. I had been dreaming about you for years. I knew you would be along sooner or later. And in you came."
Sally was conscious of a strange breathlessness. This man might have a peculiar way of laying bare his heart, but she did not question his sincerity. Not even the fact that he had just wandered to Mrs Steptoe's dressing table and was absently drawing a face on the mirror with lipstick caused her to revise this opinion. Romeo and Chibnall might not have chosen this moment for drawing faces on mirrors, but this was Joss Weatherby, and incalculable being, for whom she was suddenly aware that she felt a very warm affection—of, she was careful to tell herself, a purely maternal nature.
"You'd better rub that out," she said.
"True," said Joss, doing so. "Well, that's the setup."
There was a silence. Joss had found a jar of cold cream and was applying it thoughtfully to the tip of his nose.
''I'm sorry," said Sally.
"Nothing to be sorry about. It's wonderful. When you consider what the odds are against your meeting the one person in the world who's intended for you the thing's a miracle. Suppose you hadn't come to J, B.'s office that morning. Suppose I hadn't been there. Why, it's a pure fluke that I happen to be in England at all.''
"I mean I'm sorry you feel like that.''
"Why?"
Something of her maternal warmth left Sally, to be replaced by a touch of the resentment she had felt at the beginning of the interview. At times such as this a girl likes to be helped out.
"Well, if you think I enjoy having to tell you that I'm in love with someone else—"
Joss gaped.
"You don t mean—"
"You've got cold cream all over your nose.''
"You don't mean you're taking this engagement of yours seriously?"
"Don't you think engagements ought to be taken seriously?''
"Not this one.''
"Oh."
"Certainly not. The whole thing's absurd. It stands to reason that you can't really love this fellow."
"Do you know George?"
"Is his name George? No, I don't. But I know all about him.
l've made enquiries in the servants' hall. He's a crooner. This is a known fact. He sings 'Trees.' It's sheer nonsense to say you love him.''
There had been a moment, when she had woken to the realization that she was engaged to be married, when Sally had been conscious of misgivings on this point herself. Lord Holbeton, as Joss had said, was addicted to singing "Trees," and he had been doing it just before he proposed. Like so many "Trees" singers, he always extracted the last drop of syrup from words and music, and that night he had let it go in a manner that might have melted a Medusa.
Even Mr Steptoe had seemed affected. And some malignant imp of doubt had whispered to her, as she. lay thinking in bed next morning, that her acceptance of his proposal might have been merely an impulsive girl's natural reaction to a tenor voice that sounded like a swooning mosquito.
These misgivings had passed as quickly as they had come, but the fact that she had entertained them, if only for an instant, lent vehemence to her statement of faith now.
"I do!"
Joss was telling himself that he must be very tactful, very diplomatic.
"But the man's a mess," he said in pursuance of this policy.
"He is not!"
"Well, no," said Joss, ever fair-minded, "I oughtn't to have said that. I know nothing against him, except that he sings 'Trees.'
I suppose it's just the idea of the girl you love even considering anyone else that's so revolting. It seems to go right against one's better nature. Very well, we'll let it go that he's quite a good chap in his way, and if he marries somebody else I am perfectly willing to send him a fish slice. But it's ridiculous to think of him marrying you. The thing doesn't make sense. And you're utterly mistaken in supposing that you love him. Dismiss that notion absolutely. Of course," said Joss, "one can see how you got the idea."
"Do tell me that."
"It's obvious. You were having a rotten time here. You were crushed and oppressed by old Ma Steptoe. It was 'Sally this' and
'Sally that.' 'Comb this dog! See that cook—' "
"That sounds like a bit out of 'Old Man River.' "
"You are familiar with 'Old Man River'?"
''I am."
"I sing it a good deal."
"It must sound wonderful."
"It does. And there," said Joss, seizing on the point with the skill of a practical debater, "you have in a nutshell the essential difference between this George of yours and me. When I sing I sing openly and honestly, starting from the soles of the feet, very deep and loud and manly, so that anyone can see that my heart is in the right place. He gives it out from the eyebrows in an effeminate trickle. The State rests.''
"You were saying something about dogs and cooks."
"Oh yes. I was just pointing out that your lot in the home was such a hard one that quite naturally you said to yourself, 'Oh hell! Anything to get out of this.' With the result that when George came along you kidded yourself that you were in love with him."
This was so true that it stung Sally like the flick of a whip. However, long training as a poor relation had given her the ability to curb her temper in trying circumstances.
"I must be going," she said.
"Where?"
"Back to the drawing room.''
"Not before we've got all this threshed out. We can't leave it hanging in the air. It beats me why I can't make you see how things are between us. You must believe in affinities."
"Like George and me?"
"Don't," pleaded Joss, ''be funny at a moment like
this. It clouds the issue. It isn't possible, I repeat, that you love this bird Holbeton.
We know him in the servants' hall as That Bloke with the Adam's Apple."
Sally had long since come to the conclusion that cold dignity was too difficult. She now found resentment equally hard to achieve.
From their first meeting she had been strangely drawn to this extraordinary young man, and her subconscious self was even now trying rather austerely to draw her attention to the fact that she was deriving far too much pleasure from his society at this moment.
Of course it was abominable what he was saying about poor George, but there was no getting away from it that That Bloke with the Adam's Apple was an admirable description of him-terse, neat and telling the story in a sentence.
"Watch that Adam's apple. That's all I say. Watch it. And in the privacy of your chamber reflect what it would be like to spend the remainder of your life with it."
Nor was there any getting away from the fact that in Joss's company she felt stimulated and happy, as if she were a child watching a three-ring circus. That was how she had felt directly she had seen him, that first morning when they had drunk sherry together in the office of J. B. Duff.
A sudden, uncontrollable giggle escaped her.
"No laughing matter," said Joss reprovingly. "It would drive me nuts."
"I was thinking," Sally explained, of Mr Duff and the sherry."
Joss's stern face relaxed into a smile.
"Quite a party, that."
"Quite."
"When he suddenly appeared from nowhere, shouting, 'Hey!'
I wonder if you experienced the same odd sensation that I did, as if the top of the head had parted abruptly from its moorings?"
"Yes, that's just how I felt."
"Twin souls," said Joss. "Twin souls. Two minds with but a single thought. But let us not diverge from the main theme. By Jove, though," he went on, "we haven't. J. B. Duff. We will now speak of him. I saw him yesterday."
"I did too."
"So he said. And he .told me something that shocked me. It appears that this delusion of yours that you love George Holbeton persists so strongly that you are prepared to steal portraits in order to get money for him so that he can marry you."
"Quite true."
"Well, thank heaven, I can block that punt."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"Well, we needn't wrangle about it. He told me you were after the portrait too. Let the best man win."
"He has. I've got it."
"What!"
"Under my waistcoat at this very moment, like a chest protector."
"I don't believe you."
"Well, look."
Sally uttered a wailing cry.
"Mr Weatherby!"
"You may call me Joss."
"Joss, give it to me!"
"Thereby enabling you to marry a man who sings 'Trees' at the drop of the hat? No, no. This is not the true Sally Fairmile speaking. This is a Sally Fairmile who has not yet come out from under the ether and is not responsible for what she says. Gosh, you'll thank me for this someday."
Desperation came upon Sally. She flung herself at him, like Mrs Chavender's Pekinese attacking Mrs Steptoe's Alsatian. Her fingers clawed at his waistcoat, and he caught her wrists. And then, so true is it that one thing leads to another and that you can try a good man just so high, he suddenly found that she was in his arms. After that he hardly knew what he was doing. Chibnall, however, could have told him. Chibnall, with his intimate knowledge of the Nosegay Novelette series, would have recognized the procedure immediately. He was clasping Sally to his bosom and showering burning kisses on her upturned face.
This sort of thing went on for some time. It might have gone on longer had not Lord Holbeton entered the room. Mrs Steptoe, wearying of waiting for Sally to bring her that wrist watch, had asked him if he would be kind enough to go and see what he could do about it.
Chapter XVI
The spectacle at which Lord Holbeton found himself gazing was one which could not have been viewed with indifference by any fiancé. Owing to the noiseless manner in which he had opened the door, neither of the other two principals in the scene had become aware of his presence, and for some moments after his arrival what might be called the status quo ante continued to prevail. Joss was still kissing Sally, and Sally, who .in the opening stages had kicked him on the shin, had just begun to realize that she was feeling disgracefully happy about it all.
That this was not the right attitude she was well aware. Her better self was being rather critical. Nevertheless, that was how she felt. In a curious sort of way this seemed to her something that ought to have happened long ago, something to which she had been looking forward without knowing it ever since that morning in Mr Duff's office.
Lord Holbeton coughed.
"I say." he said.
The comment was one which to some might have seemed lacking in fire and spirit. It was not the sort of thing Othello would have said in similar circumstances. But the truth was that only with the greatest difficulty had the speaker managed to keep out of his voice a note of wholehearted relief. The problem of how to find a way of cancelling his commitments without offending against the code of an English gentleman had been putting dark circles under his eyes. And now he perceived that it had been handed to him on a plate. Normally the troth of a Holbeton, once plighted, would have had to stay plighted. But this altered everything.
In the time which had elapsed since he had proposed in the scented garden of Claines Hall Lord Holbeton had been putting in some very intensive thinking, and he had come definitely to the conclusion that in becoming engaged to Sally Fairmile he had made a mistake. He liked Sally. He admired Sally. He wished her well and would watch her future career with considerable interest. But, while still vague as to what exactly were the qualities which he demanded in a wife, he was very clear in his mind that she must not be the sort of girl who routs a man out at midnight to go and pinch portraits and gets him bitten in the leg by Pekinese.
"Look here," said Lord Holbeton.
Joss had released Sally. He would have preferred to go on showering burning kisses on her upturned face, but one has to do the civil thing. Now that her betrothed had put in an appearance he could not be ignored. He must be drawn into their little circle.
"Oh, hullo," he said.
"Who are you?" said Lord Holbeton.
"Weatherby is the name."
"Why, dash it, you're Steptoe's man!"
"Yes.''
"Well, I'm dashed. This won't do," said Lord Holbeton, for the first time addressing his remarks directing to Sally. "You can't do this sort of thing, you know. Go about hugging and kissing the domestic staff, I mean. I mean to say, dash it! Well, after this, of course, everything's off. This is official."
He strode from the room without Mrs Steptoe's wrist watch.
On the part of at least one of the two occupants of the apartment the silence which he left behind him was a thoughtful one.
Joss, as he returned to Mrs Steptoe's dressing table and started to draw a moustache on his upper lip with her mascara, was frowning meditatively. He realized now what before had escaped his notice, that his recent behaviour was in certain respects open to criticism.
''I'm sorry," he said.
Sally did not speak. He peered into the mirror, hesitated whether to add a small imperial to the moustache, decided not to.
"You shouldn't have grappled with me. It put ideas into my head. Shall I go after him and explain?"
"No, don't bother."
Joss turned quickly. Sally gave a little squeal of laughter.
"Your face I"
"There is something wrong with it?''
"No, no. It's an improvement."
Joss was looking at her incredulously. He felt that he must have misunderstood her.
"Did you say, 'Don't bother'?"
"I did."
"You don't want me to explain?''
"No, thanks."
"But I've ruined your romance."
"I prefer it that way."
"You said you loved him."
"One changes one's mind."
Joss nodded understandingly.
"I see. So you took my advice and studied that Adam's apple?