Part 40 (1/2)

”You ain't lookin' well, me dear,” he said with conviction.

”That's a sure way to a woman's heart,” replied Patricia gaily.

”'Ow's that, me dear?” he questioned.

”Why, telling her that she's looking plain,” retorted Patricia.

Mr. Triggs protested.

”All I want is a holiday,” went on Patricia. ”There are only three weeks to wait and then----”

There was, however, no joy of antic.i.p.ation in her voice.

”You're frettin'!”

Patricia turned angrily upon Mr. Triggs.

”Fretting! What on earth do you mean, Mr. Triggs?” she demanded.

Mr. Triggs sat down suddenly, overwhelmed by Patricia's indignation.

”Don't be cross with me, me dear.” Mr. Triggs looked so like a child fearing rebuke that she was forced to smile.

”You must not say absurd things then,” she retorted. ”What have I got to fret about?”

Mr. Triggs quailed beneath her challenging glance. ”I--I'm sorry, me dear,” he said contritely.

”Don't be sorry, Mr. Triggs,” said Patricia severely; ”be accurate.”

”I'm sorry, me dear,” repeated Mr. Triggs.

”But that doesn't answer my question,” Patricia persisted. ”What have I to fret about?”

Mr. Triggs mopped his brow vigorously. He invariably expressed his emotions with his handkerchief. He used it strategically, tactically, defensively, continuously. It was to him what the lines of Torres Vedras were to Wellington. He retired behind its sheltering folds, to emerge a moment later, his forces reorganised and re-arrayed. When at a loss what to say or do, it was his handkerchief upon which he fell back; if he required time in which to think, he did it behind its ample and protecting folds.

”You see, me dear,” said Mr. Triggs at length, avoiding Patricia's relentless gaze, as he proceeded to stuff away the handkerchief in his tail pocket. ”You see, me dear----” Again he paused. ”You see, me dear,” he began for a third time, ”I thought you was frettin' over your work or something, when you ought to be enjoyin' yourself,” he lied.

Patricia looked at him, her conscience smiting her. She smiled involuntarily.

”I never fret about anything except when you don't come to see me,” she said gaily.

Mr. Triggs beamed with good-humour, his fears now quite dispelled.

”You're run down, me dear,” he said with decision. ”You want an 'oliday. I must speak to A. B. about it.”

”If you do I shall be very angry,” said Patricia; ”Mr. Bonsor is always very kind and considerate.”

”It--it isn't----” began Mr. Triggs, then paused.

”It isn't what?” Patricia smiled at his look of concern.

”If--if it is,” began Mr. Triggs. Again he paused, then added with a gulp, ”Couldn't I lend you some?”