Part 12 (1/2)
”I should know better, if you would tell me,” murmured Patricia with a patient sigh as she seated herself in the easiest of the uneasy chairs, and proceeded to pull off her gloves.
”Patricia, I refer to these stories about your being engaged.”
”Yes, Aunt Adelaide?”
”Have you nothing to say?”
”Nothing in particular. People get engaged, you know. I suppose it is because they've got nothing else to do.”
”Patricia, don't be frivolous.”
”Frivolous! Me frivolous! Aunt Adelaide! If you were a secretary to a brainless politician, who is supposed to rise, but who won't rise, can't rise, and never will rise, from ten until five each day, for the magnificent salary of two and a half guineas a week, even you wouldn't be able to be frivolous.”
”Patricia!” There was surprised disapproval in Miss Brent's voice.
”Are you mad?”
”No, Aunt Adelaide, just bored, just bored stiff.” Patricia emphasised the word ”stiff” in a way that brought Miss Brent into an even more upright position.
”Patricia, I wish you would change your idiom. Your flagrant vulgarity would have deeply pained your poor, dear father.”
Patricia made no response; she simply looked as she felt, unutterably bored. She was incapable even of invention. Supposing she told her aunt the whole story, at least she would have the joy of seeing the look of horror that would overspread her features.
”Patricia,” continued Miss Brent, ”I repeat, what is this I hear about your being engaged?”
”Oh!” replied Patricia indifferently, ”I suppose you've heard the truth; I've got engaged.”
”Without telling me a word about it.”
”Oh, well! those are nasty things, you know, that one doesn't advertise.”
”Patricia!”
”Well, aunt, you say that all men are beasts, and if you a.s.sociate with beasts, you don't like the world to know about it.”
”Patricia!” repeated Miss Brent.
”Aunt Adelaide!” cried Patricia, ”you make me feel that I absolutely hate my name. I wish I'd been numbered. If you say 'Patricia' again I shall scream.”
”Is it true that you are engaged to Lord Peter Bowen?”
”Good Lord, no.” Patricia sat up in astonishment.
”Then that woman in the lounge is a liar.”
There was uncompromising conviction in Miss Brent's tone.
Patricia leaned forward and smiled. ”Aunt Adelaide, you are singularly discriminating to-day. She is a liar, and she also happens to be a cat.”
Miss Brent appeared not to hear Patricia's remark. She was occupied with her own thoughts. She possessed a masculine habit of thinking before she spoke, and in consequence she was as devoid of impulse and spontaneity as a snail.
Patricia watched her aunt covertly, her mind working furiously. What could it mean? Lord Peter Bowen! Miss w.a.n.gle was not given to making mistakes in which the aristocracy were concerned. At Galvin House she was the recognised authority upon anything and everything concerned with royalty and the t.i.tled and landed gentry. County families were her hobbies and the peerage her obsession. It would be just like Peter, thought Patricia, to turn out a lord, just the ridiculous, inconsequent sort of thing he would delight in. She was unconscious of any incongruity in thinking of him as Peter. It seemed the natural thing to do.