“No excuse,” quavered Miss LaFosse; “no excuse at all.”
“I’m glad you’re frank,” he said curtly; “I wouldn’t take even a bilious attack.”
“I never have bilious attacks,” said Miss LaFosse indignantly; “I never overeat. I’ve got my figure to think of.”
“Stand up.”
Miss LaFosse stood up obediently with a glimmer of smiling relief in her eyes, but to her own, and Miss Pettigrew’s complete shock, the irate young man grasped her shoulders and began to shake her soundly.
Miss Pettigrew started forward with a cry of indignation; then she stopped. She didn’t know why. Here was a strange young man maltreating her friend and she simply stood like a stuffed dummy and did nothing about it. Nor did she want to. Miss Pettigrew gasped at herself. But quite suddenly she felt that this magnificent young man was quite dependable, would never really hurt Miss LaFosse and that Miss LaFosse probably deserved all she was getting. Yes. Miss Pettigrew admitted that to herself. Quite frankly she confessed in her innermost mind that much as she adored Miss LaFosse she must in truthfulness acknowledge that her friend would be quite capable of doing some deed worthy of righteous anger and obviously this was a case in point. Her wits, sharpened by the day’s adventures, were rising to amazing heights of discernment. They leaped at understanding. From the small scrap of conversation heard Miss Pettigrew deduced immediately that Miss LaFosse had done something to the young man meriting anger, for which she had no excuse. She had admitted that herself. The punishment then was only just. Having dealt with children all her adult life, and what, after all, was Miss LaFosse but a grown-up child, Miss Pettigrew had a wholesome respect for a little requisite punishment. She decided to await events. Plenty of time to interfere if it became really necessary. First she must endeavour to grasp what it was all about.
The young man ceased shaking Miss LaFosse.
“I’ve been waiting to do that for thirty days. Now what have you got to say?”
“I d…deserved it,” said Miss LaFosse breathlessly, but with surprising meekness.
He gave her a grim glance.
“So that’s the stunt, is it? You needn’t try and get round me.”
“No…no!” said Miss LaFosse hastily.
He loosened his hold.
“Because you can’t do it…not this time.”
“I’m not trying to,” said Miss LaFosse humbly.
He stood back.
“Oh yes, you are, but it won’t work any longer. You’ve made a sap out of me for the last time.”
“Oh, please,” said Miss LaFosse in distress, “don’t say that. Do anything you like. Shake me again.”
“I don’t want to shake you again.”
A smile of relief broke through Miss LaFosse’s agitation.
“I’m so glad. I didn’t really like it.” Her smile became coaxing. “Well, now that’s over, aren’t you going to kiss me now?”
“Oh no, my girl. I don’t share any more.”
Miss LaFosse raised a sudden, startled gaze to his. He answered her unspoken question grimly.
“Yes, I’m through.”
“But…” began Miss LaFosse.
“There’s no more buts, no more evasions, no more excuses. I’ve finished. You can fool me once, but not twice. I don’t stand that from any man…or woman.”
“Oh!” whispered Miss LaFosse.
“I’m only letting you know. I’m a damn fool over you, and you know it, but I’ve got limits. You’ve reached them. You’ve played fast and loose with me for the last time. You either toe the line…or I quit.”
His last words were grim. Miss Pettigrew knew they were true. Felt that Miss LaFosse knew they were true. Miss LaFosse went a little white. Miss Pettigrew came and sat down. Her heart was hammering with excitement. She settled down to the enjoyment of a new situation, but keeping her senses alert to step in and do any rescue work should it be necessary and her powers capable.
“Well,” said the visitor grimly, “I’m still waiting for the explanation.”
Miss LaFosse crumpled into a chair.
“Oh!” wailed Miss LaFosse, “I funked it.”
“Thank you,” said the young man. “I’m glad to learn your opinion of me.”
He ran his hand with an angry gesture through his hair. It was very nice, thick hair, smoothed back in the most correct modern fashion. Not fair, not dark. A comfortable inbetween shade, which left a man a man, without casting him for a blond hero or a dusky villain. He was not exactly young. Not in the twenties. Perhaps the early thirties, but all men, under forty, were young to Miss Pettigrew.
“Oh, please,” implored Miss LaFosse. “It wasn’t that. It was just at the last minute I felt I couldn’t go through. Oh! I can’t explain. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I dreaded when you should come back.”
“I can quite understand that,” he said calmly. “Deliberately to raise a man’s hopes, ‘til he’s sitting on top of the world, then smash ‘em in smithereens for a new whim, I suppose! It wasn’t a particularly commendable action. If you hadn’t agreed…but you did. That made all the difference.”
Miss LaFosse gave him another pleading look. Suddenly she began to cry a little. The new-comer frowned, then pounced again. He gathered Miss LaFosse in his arms and kissed her. It acted miraculously. Miss LaFosse gave a watery smile through her tears.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she gulped. “I never thought you’d feel…quite like that.”
“Stop making your eyes red or you’ll blame me for that later,” said her kisser peremptorily. “I know you’re just doing it for effect. Unfortunately the effect is telling on a susceptible male. I’ll stop yelling, though I’m not sorry I bawled you out. I’d do it again, under similar circumstances, only there won’t be any similar circumstances. That, I hope, is firmly in your head.”
His voice went a little grim again on the last words. Miss LaFosse looked at him. He looked at Miss LaFosse. He bent and gave her another kiss, then put her on her feet. He frowned at her a moment, then turned and grinned at Miss Pettigrew.
“How-d’you-do? Don’t mind our little skirmish.”
“Not at all,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“Delysia likes an audience. She’s accustomed to it. The tears were for your benefit to make you think I was a brute.”
“Oh, please,” said Miss Pettigrew in a fluster, caught between loyalty to Miss LaFosse and sympathy for this odd young man.
“Do I look like a brute?”
“No,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“Do I look like a cannibal?”
“No,” gasped Miss Pettigrew.
“Do I look like a wife-beater?”
“Certainly not,” denied Miss Pettigrew indignantly.
“There,” triumphed the new-comer. “What more could you expect in a man? Not a brute, not a cannibal, not a wife-beater. A testimonial from your own sex. Damnation, I think I’m too good for you.”
Miss LaFosse began to giggle. She couldn’t help it. Miss Pettigrew sat up with delighted interest. The big man’s smile was extraordinarily engaging.
“Oh, please,” giggled Miss LaFosse. “Do behave.”
“That’s rudeness,” said the visitor indignantly, “that’s ingratitude. That calls for a pick-me-up. I want a drink. Good Lord, woman, where’s your sense of hospitality? Where’s that admirable gift of a true hostess, anticipation of a guest’s wants?”
“There’s plenty in the back,” said Miss LaFosse.
“I’ll get it,” offered Miss Pettigrew.
“You’ll do no such thing. I can carry a bottle, can’t I?” He banged into a table. “My God, Delysia, who the devil furnished this room, it’s like the seduction scene in From Chorus Girl to Duchess”
“It’s very nice,” said Miss LaFosse heatedly. “I chose it myself.”
“Your taste is deplorable.”
He charged into the kitchen. They heard him thumping round the kitchen, clattering chairs and table, banging cup
board doors, rattling glasses on a tray.
“A very noisy young man,” said Miss Pettigrew happily.
“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” agreed Miss LaFosse.
Suddenly howls of rage were heard in the kitchen.
“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew.
“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.
His irate face appeared in the doorway.
“Good God, woman!” he roared. “How many times have I to tell you that Whiskey, W-h-i-s-k-e-y, is a man’s drink? There’s rum there, there’s port there, there’s sherry there, there’s even that damn-awful gin there, but not one drop of whiskey. Where’s your sense? Where’s your consideration for your visitors?”
“Oh dear!” said Miss LaFosse weakly. “Won’t any of it do?”
“It will not. At the moment I want a drink. At the moment I feel I need a drink. At the moment I must have a drink. That porter seemed to have an intelligent face. I won’t be a minute.”
He stamped across the room and banged the door behind him.
“Oh dear,” quavered Miss Pettigrew.
“That,” said Miss LaFosse gently, “was Michael.”
“Michael?” gasped Miss Pettigrew.
“Michael,” said Miss LaFosse.
“Good…good gracious!” said Miss Pettigrew feebly.
She groped for a chair and sat down. It took her quite a minute to gather her faculties together again: banish her preconceived notions of Michael: readjust her mental attitude towards the man in the flesh. Then her eyes began to shine, her face became pink, her body quivered with delight. She sat straight. She fixed shining eyes on Miss LaFosse.
“Oh, my dear!” said Miss Pettigrew joyfully. “I congratulate you.”
“Eh!” said Miss LaFosse. “What about?”
Miss Pettigrew was not to be damped. She was now a partisan, and there is no stronger partisan anywhere than a middle-aged spinster with romantic ideals.
“If I were twenty years younger,” said Miss Pettigrew with a radiant face, “and could, I’d steal him from you.”
“Would you really?” asked Miss LaFosse with interest.
“I’ve been worried,” stated Miss Pettigrew happily, “secretly worried, my dear, though I didn’t show it, but it has gone. I’m quite serene now.”
“I didn’t think you liked Michael,” said Miss LaFosse. “Your previous tone certainly gave me that impression.”
“I hadn’t seen him then,” apologized Miss Pettigrew.
“It just goes to prove how wicked it is to indulge in preconceived ideas.”
“And you recommend…Michael?” said Miss LaFosse in surprise.
“For you…absolutely right,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly.
All her troubles had fled. Miss LaFosse’s future was assured. No life with Michael could possibly be dull, obscure, frustrated. A fig for her ridiculous fears. He was the perfect mate. Miss LaFosse, married to Michael, would continue to live the gorgeous, colourful life that was her due. Who could imagine a mediocre existence with that young man? All was well. A load had been lifted from her heart.
“White velvet and a veil and orange blossom,” said Miss Pettigrew blissfully. “Oh, my dear. I know it’s presumptuous in so short an acquaintance, but if you will only let me know the date, if it’s the last thing I do, I’d like to get to the church.”
“Oh, Guinevere!” chuckled Miss LaFosse. “You’re going much too fast.”
Her face sobered. She fiddled with the fastening of her sleeve.
“It isn’t as simple as all that.”
“Why not?” demanded Miss Pettigrew boldly. “He wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”
“He did,” said Miss LaFosse dubiously.
“Did!” Miss Pettigrew’s heart sank. “You told me he did,” she implored.
“I hadn’t seen him then.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well. You saw how he was.”
“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew, “he seemed a little annoyed over something.”
“I think he was very annoyed,” said Miss LaFosse.
“If…if I could be of any assistance,” said Miss Pettigrew hopelessly.
“It’s very complicated,” said Miss LaFosse.
“Not again,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“It’s not a very appetizing story.”
“I can bear it.”
“Well,” sighed Miss LaFosse, “I’d better try and explain before Michael gets back. Michael wanted to marry me. He kept pestering me. Then in a rash moment I thought if I married Michael, I’d be safe from Nick. So I said yes. He got a special licence and we arranged to get married at once at a registry office. Then Nick came that morning…and…well…I just didn’t turn up. Michael went on a blind and when a bobby was trying to run him in for being drunk and disorderly he socked him one and got thirty days, no option. I thought he might have cooled off before he came out, but he doesn’t seem to have cooled off.”
“A blind!” said Miss Pettigrew faintly. “Socked him one.”
Her mind was in a whirl of excitement. By giving the closest attention to Miss LaFosse’s story, she had managed to construe it correctly. Through heartbreaking disappointment Michael had gone out and got drunk and struck a policeman. He was a gaolbird: a drunkard: a man who had committed the most heinous of sins under the British Constitution. He had assaulted a policeman in the performance of his duty. He was branded for life with a prison record. He should at once be consigned to the lowest depths of her contempt. But was he? He was not. He went rocketing still higher in Miss Pettigrew’s esteem. She thrilled at the very thought of him. He was a man among men. All her sympathies poured out to him. Who would not excuse folly when committed for love? Even Miss LaFosse must be moved by this powerful proof of the depth of his heart-break. She turned with quivering expectancy towards Miss LaFosse. “He was quite right,” Miss LaFosse was saying. “I was only pretending I funked it. It wasn’t really that. If it weren’t for Nick I think I might marry Michael…though I don’t know,” said Miss LaFosse darkly. “It takes a lot of thinking about. When you think how…”
“Oh, but now!” broke in Miss Pettigrew breathlessly, “I mean now…when you’ve seen them both on the same day…when you see there’s no comparison…surely…”
Miss LaFosse stood up. She leaned her head against the mantelpiece.
“You don’t understand,” she said in a muffled voice, “I still feel the same about Nick.”
Miss Pettigrew had no words. How could any woman prefer Nick before Michael, however fascinating Nick might be? The one was gold, the other just gilt. But who was she to advise a young lady with three lovers all at once, when she had never had even one in all her life! She made a valiant effort.
“Oh, but my dear Miss LaFosse,” said Miss Pettigrew agitatedly, “please, please consider. Michael is a man. Nick is only a…a disease.”
“It’s no use,” said Miss LaFosse hopelessly. “Haven’t I told myself all that before?”
“Does Michael know about Nick?” asked Miss Pettigrew sadly.
“He knows we’re friendly,” said Miss LaFosse cautiously, “but, well, not quite so friendly as we are.”
“I should hope not,” said Miss Pettigrew severely.
“What the eye doesn’t see…” said Miss LaFosse sententiously.
“Quite,” agreed Miss Pettigrew with abandon, without a thought for her old moral standards.
“And now,” said Miss LaFosse gloomily, “I suppose I’ll have to say good-bye to Michael.”
“Oh no!” said Miss Pettigrew, almost in tears.
“Well, you see,” explained Miss LaFosse simply, “I’ve never fooled myself about Michael, even if he thinks I have.. I knew all along a time would come when he said ‘the end’. I would have to say yes or no. It’s come. You heard him. He means it. I know Michael. Oh dear. I know it’s dog in the mangerish. But I didn’t want him to go.”
“Oh please!” begged Miss Pettigrew. “Couldn’t
you say yes. Once it’s over you’ll never regret it, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know,” said Miss LaFosse again darkly; “there’s reasons why…”
Michael banged on the door again. Miss LaFosse’s reasons remained unexplained. She hastily powdered her nose. Miss Pettigrew opened the door.
“What did I tell you?” asked Michael. “That man has intelligence. A little tact. A little persuasion. A small inducement, and immediately the necessary is produced.”
He plonked a whiskey bottle on the table. Miss LaFosse produced a corkscrew. Miss Pettigrew brought glasses.
“Say when,” said Michael.
“When,” said Miss LaFosse.
“Soda?”
“No, thanks.”
“Stout girl.”
Miss Pettigrew stood braced for adventure.
“When?” asked Michael.
“When” gasped Miss Pettigrew.
“Oh, come!” expostulated Michael.
“Quit pressing,” said Miss LaFosse. “Guinevere’s refined. She’s not like you. She doesn’t go round getting drunk and bashing coppers. Put some soda in.”
“I always wanted to taste whiskey,” said Miss Pettigrew happily. “I’ve never had it, ever, even when I’ve had a cold, as medicine.”
“Where were you brought up?” commiserated Michael.
“Sip it slowly,” begged Miss LaFosse.
“Bottoms up,” said Michael.
Miss Pettigrew sipped. She pulled a face. She slipped her glass surreptitiously on the table.
“Ugh!” thought Miss Pettigrew, disappointed. “Not what it’s cracked up to be. Why men waste money getting drunk on that, when they can get a really cheap palatable drink like lemon squash…!”
“I feel better,” said Michael.
He put his empty glass on the table, tactfully ignoring Miss Pettigrew’s full one.
“Have another,” offered Miss LaFosse. “Have two more.”
Michael gave her a calculating look.
“Getting me drunk, my good woman, will not alter my sentiments towards you. I always sober up eventu-ally.”
“I didn’t think it would,” sighed Miss LaFosse, “but one can always try.”
“Well. Quit trying. It’s no good,” said Michael calmly. “Now I feel a man again we’ll get back to business. What’s the answer, yes or no?”