Part 3 (1/2)
She was genuinely fond of the old man. Mr. Triggs radiated happiness from the top of his s.h.i.+ny bald head, with its fringe of sandy-grey hair, to his square-toed boots that invariably emitted little squeaks of joy. He wore a fringe of whiskers round his chubby face, otherwise he was clean-shaven, holding that beards were ”messy” things. He had what Patricia called ”crinkly” eyes, that is to say each time he smiled there seemed to radiate from them hundreds of little lines.
He always addressed Patricia as ”me dear,” and not infrequently brought her a box of chocolates, to the scandal of Mrs. Bonsor, who had once expostulated with him that that was not the way to treat her husband's secretary.
”Tut, tut, 'Ettie,” had been Mr. Triggs's response. ”She's a fine gal.
If I was a bit younger I shouldn't be surprised if there was a second Mrs. Triggs.”
”Father!” Mrs. Bonsor had expostulated in horror. ”Remember that she is Arthur's secretary.”
Mr. Triggs had almost choked with laughter; mirth invariably seemed to interfere with his respiration and ended in violent and wheezy coughings and gaspings. Had Mrs. Bonsor known that he repeated the conversation to Patricia, she would have been mortified almost to the point of discharging her husband's secretary.
”You see, me dear,” Mr. Triggs had once said to Patricia, ”'Ettie's so busy bothering about aitches that she's got time for nothing else. She ain't exactly proud of her old father,” he had added shrewdly, ”but she finds 'is bra.s.s a bit useful.” Mr. Triggs was under no delusion as to his daughter's att.i.tude towards him.
One day he had asked Patricia rather suddenly, ”Why don't you get married, me dear?”
Patricia had started and looked up at him quickly. ”Married, me, Mr.
Triggs? Oh! I suppose for one thing n.o.body wants me, and for another I'm not in love.”
Mr. Triggs had pondered a little over this.
”That's right, me dear!” he said at length. ”Never you marry except you feel you can't 'elp it, then you'll know it's the right one. Don't you marry a chap because he's got a lot of bra.s.s. You marry for the same reason that me and my missis married, because we felt we couldn't do without each other,” and the old man's voice grew husky. ”You wouldn't believe it, me dear, 'ow I miss 'er, though she's been dead eight years next May.”
Patricia had been deeply touched and, not knowing what to say, had stretched out her hand to the old man, who took and held it for a moment in his. As she drew her hand away she felt a tear splash upon it, and it was not her own.
”Ever hear that song 'My Old Dutch'?” he asked after a lengthy silence.
Patricia nodded.
”I used to sing it to 'er--G.o.d bless my soul! what an old fool I'm gettin', talkin' to you in this way. Now I must be gettin' off. Lor!
what would 'Ettie say if she knew?”
But Mrs. Bonsor did not know.
CHAPTER III
THE ADVENTURE AT THE QUADRANT GRILL-ROOM
That evening as Patricia looked in at the lounge on the way to her room, she found it unusually crowded. On a normal day her appearance would scarcely have been noticed; but this evening it was the signal for a sudden cessation in the buzz of conversation, and all eyes were upon her. For a moment she stood in the doorway and then, with a nod and a smile, she turned and proceeded upstairs, conscious of the whispering that broke out as soon as her back was turned.
As she stood before the mirror, wondering what she should wear for the night's adventure, she recalled a remark of Miss w.a.n.gle's that no really nice-minded woman ever dressed in black and white unless she had some ulterior motive. Upon the subject of s.e.x-attraction Miss w.a.n.gle posed as an authority, and hinted darkly at things that thrilled Miss Sikk.u.m to ecstatic giggles, and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe to pianissimo moans of anguish that such things could be.
With great deliberation Patricia selected a black charmeuse costume that Miss w.a.n.gle had already confided to the whole of Galvin House was at least two and a half inches too short; but as Patricia had explained to Mrs. Hamilton, if you possess exquisitely fitting patent boots that come high up the leg, it's a sin for the skirt to be too long. She selected a black velvet hat with a large white water-lily on the upper brim.
”You look bad enough for a vicar's daughter,” she said, surveying herself in the gla.s.s as she fastened a bunch of red carnations in her belt. ”White at the wrists and on the hat, yes, it looks most improper. I wonder what the major-man will think?”
Swift movements, deft touches, earnest scrutiny followed one another.
Patricia was an artist in dress. Finally, when her gold wristlet watch had been fastened over a white glove she subjected herself to a final and exhaustive examination.
”Now, Patricia!”--it had become with her a habit to address her reflection in the mirror--”shall we carry an umbrella, or shall we not?” For a few moments she regarded herself quizzically, then finally announced, ”No: we will not. An umbrella suggests a bus, or the tube, and when a girl goes out with a major in the British Army, she goes in a taxi. No, we will not carry an umbrella.”
She still lingered in front of the mirror, looking at herself with obvious approval.