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  Although the day was mild and sunny, a huge fire burned in the grate, and Mrs. Hardstaffe shivered audibly as she sat as near to it as she felt she could do without appearing unladylike. Soon the door opened, and a rosy-cheeked maid in black uniform with white apron, cap, and cuffs, wheeled in the tea-trolley with an apologetic air.

  Mrs. Hardstaffe looked up at her over the horn-rimmed spectacles she habitually wore when knitting or reading.

  “Tea? Are you sure it's five o’clock, Briggs? You know the master doesn’t like tea brought in a minute before five. He’s never in to tea, I know, but that makes no difference. He would be most annoyed if I didn’t wait until five.”

  “Yes madam.” Briggs inclined a respectful, neat head. “But it’s after five by the wireless. They’d started talking in Welsh when I wetted the tea.”

  Mrs. Hardstaffe brightened, and thrust her knitting down the side of the chair.

  “Is it?” she smiled. “Well then, I can have a cup of tea. Not that I can say I enjoy it so much these days— you make it so weak now that it’s rationed—but still, it will be hot, and I feel so cold to-day, so very cold.”

  She raised the heavy, hall-marked Georgian teapot over a pink-patterned Limoges cup, then hesitated.

  “You’re sure the master hasn’t come in?” she asked.

  “Quite sure, madam. There’s a gentleman waiting for him in the morning-room. A Mr. Smith. He seemed a bit upset-like at not being expected, but I’m sure no one told me or Cook that he was coming, and I’d be obliged if you’d say as much to the master, madam, so that he won’t be for putting it on to me.”

  Mrs. Hardstaffe frowned.

  “Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “Now what ought I to do? I do wish they’d tell me when they’re expecting people: it does look so bad when I don’t know who is supposed to be coming to my own house—and at tea-time especially. It’s really most inconsiderate of anyone to call at tea-time unless they’ve been asked. They know it means sharing other people’s rations, and it isn’t fair to expect it. Is he a gentleman?”

  “Well—”

  The girl hesitated, but her mistress answered the question herself.

  “Of course, he’s not likely to be, with a name like that; no hyphen, just plain Smith—no!”

  “He’s brought a suitcase with him,” said Briggs, trying to be helpful.

  Mrs. Hardstaffe turned with relief to her tea.

  “Oh, then he’s a commercial traveller. Something to do with school-books, or pencils, or perhaps chalk. In that case, I don’t have to ask him to tea.”

  “I don’t think so, madam. I think he’s a visitor.”

  A look of consternation spread across Mrs. Hardstaffe’s face.

  “I do hope he’s not been invited to stay here,” she said. “I really don’t feel able to cope with visitors. I feel so ill all the time, though no one believes me. Well, I’m not going into that cold morning-room. You’d better bring him in here, Briggs, and I can decide about tea then.” Briggs went out quietly.

  Mrs. Hardstaffe selected two cakes, placed them on her plate lest the unknown visitor might choose them, and began to eat a piece of bread-and-butter.

  Just like him, she thought. He never considers me. I mean no more to him than a dog: far less: he’s fond of dogs. The only time the house is free from the creatures is when he’s out. It’s the only chance I have of any peace at all, but then it’s so lonely. Oh, he’s a hard man and a cruel man, too. Well, if he’s come to stay, I shan’t let him have my best linen sheets.

  Her thoughts were as inconsequent as her speech.

  “Mr. Smith,” announced Briggs’ voice from the door, and Mrs. Hardstaffe looked up to see an insignificant-looking man coming towards her, wearing a burberry, and carrying a bowler hat in his hand.

  She smiled frostily.

  “I’m so sorry my husband is out, but he’ll be back soon,” she said. “I expect something has delayed him at the school.”

  Then, with more warmth in her voice, she exclaimed: “Why, you look cold! I feel cold to-day, too, but no one else has seemed to notice it. Sit down by the fire, and have a cup of tea; it’s freshly made. Oh no, not in that chair, if you don’t mind—that’s Mr. Hardstaffe’s chair. He’d be most annoyed if he came in and found someone sitting there. He won’t use any other in this room, though I’m sure they’re all comfortable. Sugar?”

  “No, thanks. I never take it. Just a little milk.”

  Mrs. Hardstaffe beamed at him.

  “Really! How very convenient that much be in wartime. One is allowed such a little bit—a quarter of a pound, or half, or is it a pound? I never can remember, but I know it isn’t enough. For all I know, I may not have my full ration. My daughter will give sugar to the dogs, and she does all the catering. I haven’t been able to do anything of that kind since my operation. It has left me very weak. Really, sometimes I feel so ill at night that I feel I shall never get out of my bed again alive. And however well I sleep, I always wake up tired.”

  Sounds like one of those pictorial advertisements they run in the daily papers, thought Smith, but he said sympathetically enough. “I’m very sorry. I hope it wasn’t a very serious operation.”

  “Just one of those things we poor women have to bear. I’ve had three miscarriages, you see. But I won’t go into details.” (Thank God for that, thought Smith). “I have to take care of myself. My doctor insists that I should take very great care indeed. But how can I do that in these days, and in this house? I usually go abroad for the winter: I can’t stand this climate, but what can I do? I don’t want to go to a place where I shall be bombed, yet I feel I shall die if I stay here. Indeed, Mr. Smith, this war is very hard on us invalids.”

  She became quite animated. She so rarely found a new audience to listen to the recital of her troubles, or, having found one, was even more rarely allowed to monopolise its attention.

  A tinge of colour came into her pale cheeks, and Smith, looking at her squarely for the first time, thought how pretty she must have looked in the befrilled skirts and bodices of the early Georgian days of his own youth.

  Her hair, though nearly white, still curled about her head. Her eyebrows were delicately traced by Nature, her features small. But pale pouches, criss-crossed with fine lines, curved in baggy half-moons beneath her pale blue eyes, and there were deep lines from her nose to the corners of her down-turned mouth.

  She was, reflected Smith, either a very ill, or a very ill-tempered woman.

  He sat on the extreme edge of a low chair, cup balanced in hand, and plate on knee, scarcely knowing how to broach the purpose of his visit, when the sound of doors banging, of dogs barking, and of a loud, cheerful voice raised in greeting, came from the hall.

  Mrs. Hardstaffe’s face resumed its habitual aggrieved expression.

  “Oh dear! That’s Leda—my daughter, you know, though I never can think why we ever chose such a name for her, for I’m sure she isn’t in the least swan-like, more’s the pity. I think you’d better put your cup and plate on the table,” she added, inconsequently, “I hope you like dogs.”

  Before Smith had time to assimilate the significance of these remarks, the door opened, and Leda Hardstaffe walked into the room, surrounded by a pack of delighted, yelping Sealyhams, whose squirming jumps left fine streaks of white hairs on the hem of her navy-blue uniform. Then, perceiving a stranger, they hurled themselves at Smith, knocking both cup and plate on to the carpet.

  The bitches indulged in snarling matches for the cake Smith had been eating, while the dogs shared the spilled tea, licking cup, saucer, spoon, and carpet, with equal care. When the last crumb of cake and drop of tea had been consumed, the dogs dispersed to their several favourite chair-legs in order to dispose of other liquid previously imbibed.

  Mrs. Hardstaffe threw her knitting at the nearest dog. “Leda! I will not have the dogs in here. It’s positively disgusting—and with a visitor here, too. You must forgive us,” she said, turning to Smith. “These are kennel do
gs. Leda breeds them, and I have had the most beautiful kennels built for them outside, but she ** keep bringing them into the house.”

  “I’ve got to house-train them, Mother, if I’m to sell them,” said Leda. “They only do this kind of thing when I’ve been out, and I’ve told you before that it’s because you will shut them up as soon as my back’s turned. If you’d only leave them alone, they’d be all right.”

  “Well, I don’t like dogs in the house,” replied Mrs. Hardstaffe. “I’ve never been used to it. Just look at them!” She pointed to the Sealyhams who now, with panting tongues, and paws draped over the edge of every available chair, were engaged in completing various stages of their toilet. “They’ll ruin the covers, and these were expensive ones.” She turned again to Smith. “Do you like dogs all over a room, like this?”

  “I’m very fond of dogs,” Smith replied, fondling the ears of a young puppy which had curled round on the chair, behind him, “especially Sealyhams.”

  “They are splendid little fellows, aren’t they?” said Leda, smiling down at him from the corner of the hearth where she was standing. “They’re easily the best of the terriers, in my opinion—such loyal chaps. These are very well-bred, as a matter of fact. I’ve two champions already in the kennels, and I was hoping that Cherub—that’s the puppy you’re stroking—would do well, too, but the war’s knocked all the big shows on the head.”

  “I think that you ought to get rid of them, Leda,” said Mrs. Hardstaffe, “With all this shortage of food, it’s most unpatriotic, I think, to breed them. Don’t you agree, Mr. Smith?”

  “Well, I believe the question has been raised, and that the Government has asked breeders not to give up their stock,” said Smith.

  Leda regarded him with interest.

  “That’s quite true,” she said, “although very few people seem to know it. I’ve done very well with my puppies since the war. My customers are mostly men in the forces who want to give their wives or sweethearts a present. Of course, they’re fed on scraps. My Sealyhams will eat anything.”

  “Sugar,” murmured her mother, but Leda ignored her, and went on.

  “It’s difficult to make people realise that if you’ve got valuable bitches, it’s very bad for them not to be mated periodically.”

  Mrs. Hardstaffe shuddered.

  “That word!” she exclaimed. “And the way you discuss their family affairs in public! It’s coarse!”

  Leda laughed.

  “Well, I’m not going to call them lady-dogs, even to please you, Mother,” she said. “You ought to be used to it by now.”

  “I shall never get used to it,” replied Mrs. Hardstaffe, with dignity.

  Leda turned to Smith.

  “Are you waiting to see Daddy?” she asked.

  Smith hesitated.

  “Well, yes, in a way,” he said, “although I believe I had all the correspondence with you. I’m Arnold Smith.”

  “Good Lord! You’re our evacuee!” exclaimed Leda. “You must forgive me, but seeing you there, talking to Mother... It just didn’t occur to me somehow. Do you mean to say you never even asked him to take off his coat, Mother?” she demanded.

  “Evacuee?” murmured Mrs. Hardstaffe vaguely. “I’m sure he doesn’t look in the least...”

  “You mustn’t mind my calling you that,” laughed Leda. “It’s only my fun. You must have thought us very rude not to make you more welcome.”

  “But Leda, you never said a word to me about an—about Mr. Smith. Briggs said he had brought a suitcase, but I never thought—”

  “You never do,” sighed Leda. “That’s the trouble. You really are most exasperating.”

  “It’s my head,” moaned Mrs. Hardstaffe, “I don’t remember things. I feel so ill all the time.”

  “You’d better go and lie down, or you won’t be fit for dinner,” returned her daughter, and Mrs. Hardstaffe, with an apologetic smile towards Smith, rose, and went out.

  Leda seated herself in the chair just vacated by her mother, and, flinging off her black tin hat with the white- painted W. in front, began to run a small pocket-comb through the long bob of her waved, golden hair. Smith was old-fashioned enough to be irritated by this, for he considered that combs should be confined to use in dressing-rooms, but he admitted to himself that she looked much more youthful and attractive with her hair thus framing her face.

  “I’m so tired of wearing that old tin hat,” she exclaimed. “We’ve been having a full-dress A.R.P. practice, and I’m a warden, so I had to be there. I really can’t afford to spend the time on it, but it’s our duty to Do Our Bit, isn’t it? And Mother, of course, never does a thing. Do take your coat off, and make yourself at home. Park it anywhere. You’ll find cigarettes in the silver box on the mantelpiece. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that Daddy or I weren’t in to welcome you, but you didn’t say what train you were coming on, and we didn’t know of one that could get you here before seven.”

  “It’s my fault,” Smith assured her. “I came by car. I’d saved my coupons specially.”

  “Lucky creature! We’ve had to give our car up.” She pulled at her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke down her long, thin nose. “Look here, Mr. Smith,” she went on, “did you think it too awful of me to ask four guineas a week? If I could have my way, I’d have you here for nothing. I’d just love to throw the house open to all the people of our class who’ve been blitzed, but Mother wouldn’t hear of it. She wouldn't have anyone in the house unless they paid their full share, and I couldn't possibly board you for less, with prices at their present height. We live very well here, and it includes drinks, of course. There's always whiskey on the dining-room sideboard.''

  “No, no, that's all arranged,” returned Smith, in some embarrassment, “but I have been wondering whether it will be convenient for me to stay. It’s lovely country, and a charming house, and I should think you never hear a night bomber, do you?”

  “We had flares one night, and that was quite exciting,” she replied, “but we haven’t a siren or anything like that. Still, that's no reason why we shouldn’t keep up our A.R.P. and Red Cross Lectures: we've all got to Be Prepared: that’s what I say.”

  “Quite so. I quite agree,” said Smith hastily. “It really does seem a perfect spot for an author trying to forget air raids, and if you've changed your mind about having me here, perhaps I could find another house in the district.”

  Leda jerked up her head in sudden suspicion.

  “Changed my mind?” she exclaimed. “Why should I have gone to all the trouble of answering your advertisement and getting your room ready for you. Mother can’t be trusted to do anything. She worries too much about herself. She’s always like that. Thinks nothing but her inside, but there's really nothing the matter with her. Some damnfool of a doctor once told her to take care of herself, and she’s been taking care ever since. Have a drink?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Arnold Smith, having wallowed in a hot bath in the Hardstaffe’s super-appointed bathroom, was still attired in his dressing-gown when the sounding of a gong in the hall below warned him that dinner was served.

  He arrived downstairs ten minutes late.

  “I’m so sorry—” he began, as he entered the drawing-room.

  His voice faltered into silence, and he fingered his polka-dot bow tie with increasing embarrassment, as he thought that he might as well have saved himself the trouble of dressing, and walked down in his dressing-gown. For Mrs. Hardstaffe, still shivering with cold, wore a mink cape over just such a frilled evening gown as his imagination had pictured earlier in the day. Leda wore a period frock of gold brocade, Mr. Hardstaffe’s trousers wore the side braid of a discarded fashion, his dinner jacket barely buttoned across his U-shaped waistcoat, and his shirt was soft and tucked: nevertheless his attire was sufficient to make Smith’s striped grey suit look out of place. His look of annoyance made Smith think at first that he had noted and disliked this. But his words soon dispelled this idea.

  “
When you’ve had time to get used to our ways, Smith,” he said pompously, “you’ll know that it’s a fetish of mine to be punctual at meals. Eight o’clock breakfast, twelve-thirty lunch, five o’clock tea, and dinner at eight prompt.”

  “That’s what comes of being a schoolmaster,” smiled Leda. “It’s my fault, Daddy. I forgot to tell him.”

  Mrs. Hardstaffe nodded sympathetically.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” demanded her husband. ‘Why don’t you go in?”

  Mrs. Hardstaffe’s face immediately assumed its look of mask-like petulance, as, shrugging her shoulders, she turned and walked through the opened folding-doors into the dining-room, followed in silence by the others.

  Exhibition of Victorianism, thought Smith, in silent amusement.

  Somehow, he had not, until then, thought of the schoolmaster as a Victorian. In the drawing-room, balancing a sherry glass in his hand, he had appeared to be too young, and Smith had estimated his age to be as near to the half-century as his own. But the low light from the glaring white electric bowl in the dining-room was less flattering than the rose-coloured shades of the room they had just left, and against the more solid background of walnut sideboard, high bookcases, and carved, plush-covered chairs, Mr. Hardstaffe looked a veritable Gladstone, albeit a diminutive and clean-shaven one.

  Must be nearer seventy than fifty, thought Smith, He makes me feel quite a gay young spark.

  And he winked at Leda, who responded with a girlish giggle.

  “I can’t think why you always give me ducks to carve when we have a visitor,” grumbled Hardstaffe. “If we can’t have clippers to use on them, the least you can do is to have them disjointed in the kitchen.”

  “It is just vat I say to Mees ’Ardstaffe—In Germany, I say to ’er, always ve...”

  The carving knife clattered on the polished table as Mr. Hardstaffe jumped round.

  “What on earth...? Who’s this? Where’s Briggs?”

  Leda, barely stifling her laughter, replied.

  “This is Frieda, our new maid. You remember that Mary left last week, to go on munitions, and Briggs is expecting to be called up any day. It’s her evening out tonight.”