Herbert Jenkins - Patricia Brent, Spinster

"I'll remember," said Bowen.

"I'm glad you're a D.S.O., though," she went on, half to herself, "that's sure to interest them, and it's nice to think you're more than a major. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe are most worldly-minded. Of course it would have been nicer had you been a field-marshal; but I suppose you couldn't be promoted from a major to a field-marshal in the course of a few days, could you?"

"Well, it's not usual," he confessed.

When the meal was over Bowen looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid it's too late for a show, it's a quarter to ten."

"A quarter to ten!" cried Patricia. "How the time has flown. I shall have to be going home."

He noticed preparations for a move at the Wangle table.

"Oh, please, don't hurry! Let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time."

"Do you think I ought," enquired Patricia critically, her head on one side.

"Well," replied Bowen, "I think that you might safely do so as we are engaged," and that settled it.

They went upstairs, and it was a quarter to eleven before Patricia finally decided that she must make a move.

"Do you know," she said as she rose, "I am afraid I have enjoyed this most awfully; but oh! to-morrow morning."

"Shall you be tired?" he enquired.

"Tired!" she queried, "I shall be hot with shame. I shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. I – I shall give myself a most awful time. For days I shall live in torture. You see I'm excited now and – and – you seem so nice, and you've been so awfully kind; but when I get alone, then I shall start wondering what was in your mind, what you have been thinking of me, and – and – oh! it will be awful. No; I'll come with you while you get your hat. I daren't be left alone. It might come on then and – and I should probably bolt. Of course I shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because – because – "

"I'm your fiancé," he smiled.

"Ummm," she nodded.

Both were silent as they sped along westward in the taxi, neither seeming to wish to break the spell.

"Thinking?" enquired Bowen at length, as they passed the Marble Arch.

"I was thinking how perfectly sweet you've been," replied Patricia gravely. "You have understood everything and – and – you see I was so much at your mercy. Shall I tell you what I was thinking?"

"Please do."

"It sounds horribly sentimental."

"Never mind," he replied.

"Well, I was thinking that your mother would like to know that you had done what you have done to-night. And now, please, tell me how much my dinner was."

"Your dinner!"

"Yes, ple-e-e-e-ase ," she emphasised the "please."

"You insist?"

And then Patricia did a strange thing. She placed her hand upon Bowen's and pressed it.

"Please go on understanding," she said, and he told her how much the dinner was and took the money from her.

"May I pay for the taxi?" he enquired comically.

For a moment she paused and then replied, "Yes, I think you may do that, and now here we are," as the taxi drew up, "and thank you very much indeed, and good-bye." They were standing on the pavement outside Galvin House.

"Good-bye," he enquired. "Do you really mean it?"

"Yes, ple-e-e-ase ," again she emphasised the "please."

"Patricia," he said in a serious tone, as the door flew open and Gustave appeared silhouetted against the light, "don't you think that sometimes we ought to think of the other fellow?"

"I shall always think of the other fellow," and with a pressure of the hand, Patricia ran up the steps and disappeared into the hall, the door closing behind her. Bowen turned slowly and re-entered the taxi.

"Where to, sir?" enquired the man.

"Oh, to hell!" burst out Bowen savagely.

"Yes, sir; but wot about my petrol?"

"Your petrol? Oh! I see," Bowen laughed. "Well! the Quadrant then."

In the hall Patricia hesitated. Should she go into the lounge, where she was sure Galvin House would be gathered in full force, or should she go straight to bed? Miss Wangle decided the matter by appearing at the door of the lounge.

"Oh! here you are, Miss Brent; we thought you had eloped."

"Wasn't it strange we should see you to-night?" lisped Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, who had followed Miss Wangle.

Patricia surveyed Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe with calculating calmness.

"If two people go to the same Grill-room at the same time on the same evening, it would be strange if they did not see each other. Don't you think so, Miss Wangle?"

"Did you say you were going there?" lisped Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, coming to Miss Wangle's assistance. "We forgot."

"Oh, do come in, Miss Brent!" It was Mrs. Craske-Morton who spoke.

Patricia entered the lounge and found, as she had anticipated, the whole establishment collected. Not one was missing. Even Gustave fluttered about from place to place, showing an unwonted desire to tidy up. Patricia was conscious that her advent had interrupted a conversation of absorbing interest, furthermore that she herself had been the subject of that conversation.

"Miss Wangle has been telling us all about your fiancé." It was Miss Sikkum who spoke. "Fancy your saying he was a major when he's a Staff lieutenant-colonel."

"Oh!" replied Patricia nonchalantly, as she pulled off her gloves, "they've been altering him. They always do that in the Army. You get engaged to a captain and you find you have to marry a general. It's so stupid. It's like buying a kitten and getting a kangaroo-pup sent home."

"But aren't you pleased?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton, at a loss to understand Patricia's mood.

"No!" snapped Patricia, who was already feeling the reaction. "It's like being engaged to a chameleon, or a quick-change artist. They've made him a 'R.S.O.' as well." Under her lashes Patricia saw, with keen appreciation, the quick glances that were exchanged.

"You mean a D.S.O., Distinguished Service Order," explained Mr. Bolton. "An R.S.O. is er – er – something you put on letters."

"Is it?" enquired Patricia innocently, "I'm so stupid at remembering such things."

"He was wearing the ribbon of the Military Cross, too," bubbled Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe.

"Was he?" Patricia was afraid of overdoing the pose of innocence she had adopted. "What a nuisance."

"A nuisance!" There was surprised impatience in Miss Wangle's voice.

Patricia turned to her sweetly. "Yes, Miss Wangle. It gives me such a lot to remember. Now let me see." She proceeded to tick off each word upon her fingers. "He's a Lieutenant-Colonel Peter Bowen, D.S.O., M.C. Is that right?"

"Bowen," almost shrieked Miss Wangle. "You said Brown."

"Did I? I'm awfully sorry. My memory's getting worse than ever." Then a wave of mischief took possession of her. "Do you know when I went up to him to-night I hadn't the remotest idea of what his Christian name was."

"Then what on earth do you call him then?" cried Mrs. Craske-Morton.

"Call him?" queried Patricia, as she rose and gathered up her gloves. "Oh!" indifferently, "I generally call him 'Old Thing,'" and with that she left the lounge, conscious that she had scored a tactical victory.

When Patricia awakened the next morning, it was with the feeling that she had suffered some terrible disappointment. As a child she remembered experiencing the same sensation on the morning after some tragedy that had resulted in her crying herself to sleep. She opened her eyes and was conscious that her lashes were wet with tears. Suddenly the memory of the previous night's adventure came back to her with a rush and, with an angry dab of the bedclothes, she wiped her eyes, just as the maid entered with the cup of early-morning tea she had specially ordered.