SENSATIONAL OCCURRENCE AT A POETRY READING
§ 1
B
REAKFAST was over, and the guests of Blandings had to their occupations. Some were letters, some were in the billiard-room: some had gone to the stables, some to the links: Lady Constance was the housekeeper, Lord Emsworth head-gardener McAllister among the flower-beds: and in the Yew Alley, the upon her head, Miss Peavey walked up and down.
She was alone. It is a sad but that in this world Genius is too often to walk alone—if the members of the see it and have time to duck. Not one of the of visitors who had for the County Ball had any to Miss Peavey’s society.
One this. Except for that which her to she her hands on that was not down, Aileen Peavey’s was an character; and, enough, it was the of her nature to which these coarse-fibred objected. Of Miss Peavey, the of other people’s goods, they nothing; the woman they were was Miss Peavey, the poetess. And it may be mentioned that, much she might in the presence of a friend like Mr. Edward Cootes, she was a perfectly poetess. Those six under her name in the British Museum were her own and work: and, though she had been to pay for the production of the of the series, the other five had been out at her publisher’s own risk, and had a little money.
Miss Peavey, however, was not sorry to be alone: for she had that on her mind which called for thinking. The her attention was the problem of what on earth had to Mr. Edward Cootes. Two days had passed since he had left her to go and Psmith at the pistol’s point to him into the castle: and since that moment he had completely. Miss Peavey not it.
His non-appearance was all the more in that her superb brain had just in every detail a for the of Lady Constance Keeble’s diamond necklace; and to the success of this plot his was an adjunct. She was in the position of a who comes from his with a plan of all out, and that his army has off and left him. Little wonder that, as she the Yew Alley, there was a on Miss Peavey’s forehead.
The Yew Alley, as Lord Emsworth had in his lecture to Mr. Ralston McTodd at the Senior Conservative Club, among other which rose in solid with and finials, the majority recesses, arbors. As Miss Peavey was one of these, a voice her.
“Hey!”
Miss Peavey started violently.
“Anyone about?”
A with to it was from a near-by yew. It rolled its in an to see the corner.
Miss Peavey nearer, heavily. The question as to the of her boy was solved; but the of his return had her to bite her tongue; and joy, as she him, was with other emotions.
“You dish-faced gazooni!” she heatedly, her voice with a of ill-usage, “where do you that stuff, in trees, and barking a girl’s off?”
“Sorry, Liz. I . . .”
“And where,” Miss Peavey, another grievance, “have you been all this time? Gosh-dingit, you me a days saying you’re going to up this that calls himself McTodd with a and make him you into the house, and that’s the last I see of you. What’s the big idea?”
“It’s all right, Liz. He did me into the house. I’m his valet. That’s why I couldn’t at you before. The way the help has to keep itself to itself in this joint, we might as well have been in different counties. If I hadn’t to see you off by this . . .”
Miss Peavey’s mind the position of affairs.
“All right, all right,” she interrupted, of long speeches from others. “I understand. Well, this is good, Ed. It couldn’t have out better. I’ve got a all out, and now you’re here we can busy.”
“A scheme?”
“A pippin,” Miss Peavey.
“It’ll need to be,” said Mr. Cootes, on the events of the last days had to set its seal. “I tell you that McTodd is smooth. He somehow,” said Mr. Cootes prudently, for he from his lady-love should he the whole truth, “he somehow got wise to the that, as I was his valet, I go and in his room, where he’d be wanting to the if he got it, and now he’s gone and got them to let him have a of in the woods.”
“H’m!” said Miss Peavey. “Well,” she after a pause, “I’m not about him. Let him go and in the all he wants to. I’ve got a all ready, and it’s gilt-edged. And, unless you up your end of it, Ed, it can’t fail to home the gravy.”
“Am I in it?”
“You you’re in it. I can’t work it without you. That’s what’s been making me so when you didn’t up all this time.”
“Spill it, Liz,” said Mr. Cootes humbly. As always in the presence of this woman, he was from an complex. From the very start of their she had been the of the firm, he the to into the plans she dictated.
Miss Peavey up and the Yew Alley. It was still the same peaceful, spot. She to Mr. Cootes again, and spoke with decision.
“Now, listen, Ed, and this straight, maybe I shan’t have another of talking to you.”
“I’m listening,” said Mr. Cootes obsequiously.
“Well, to with, now that the house is full, Her Nibs is that necklace every night. And you can take it from me, Ed, that you want to put on your you look at it. It’s a lalapaloosa.”
“As good as that?”
“Ask me! You don’t know the of it.”
“Where she keep it, Liz? Have you that out?” asked Mr. Cootes, a of playing across his sad for an instant.
“No, I haven’t. And I don’t want to. I’ve not got time to waste about with and maybe having the whole on the of my neck. I in easy. Well, to-night this that calls himself McTodd is going to give a reading of his in the big drawing-room. You know where that is?”
“I can out.”
“And you had out,” said Miss Peavey vehemently. “And to-night at that. Well, there you are. Do you to wise?”
Mr. Cootes, his from the tree, would have much to have been able to make the to wisdom, for he of old the store his partner set upon of intellect. He was compelled, however, to the by his head.
“You always were dumb,” said Miss Peavey with scorn. “I’ll say that you’ve got good solid qualities, Ed—from the up. Why, I’m going to Lady Constance while that is his off, and I’m going to out and that necklace off of her. See?”
“But, Liz”—Mr. Cootes up to point out what appeared to him to be a in the scheme—“if you start any strong-arm work in of like the way you say, won’t they . . . ?”
“No, they won’t. And I’ll tell you why they won’t. They aren’t going to see me do it, when I do it it’s going to be good and dark in that room. And it’s going to be dark you’ll be out at the of the house, they keep the main electric-light works, the as hard as you can go. See? That’s your end of it, and soft for you at that. All you have to do is to out where the thing is and what you have to do to it to put out all the lights in the joint. I I can trust you not to that?”
“Liz,” said Mr. Cootes, and there was in his voice, “you can do just that little thing. But what . . . ?”
“All right, I know what you’re going to say. What after that, and how do I away with the stuff? Well, the window’ll be open, and I’ll just to it and the necklace out. See? There’ll be a big going on in the room on account of the and all that, and while everybody’s up and what-the-helling, you’ll up your dogs and as quick as you can make it and the thing. I it won’t be hard for you to it. The window’s just over the terrace, all turf, and it isn’t dark nights now, and you ought to have of time to around they can the lights going again. . . . Well, what do you think of it?” There was a silence.
“Liz,” said Mr. Cootes at length.
“Is it or is it not,” Miss Peavey, “a of fire?”
“Liz,” said Mr. Cootes, and his voice was with such as some officer of Napoleon’s staff might have on the of the latest plan of campaign, “Liz, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. When it comes to the stuff, old girl, you’re the oyster’s eye-tooth!”
And, out an arm from the of the yew, he took Miss Peavey’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. A look came into the poetess’s eyes, and she a little. Dumb-bell though he was, she loved this man.
§ 2
“Mr. Baxter!”
“Yes, Miss Halliday?”
The Brains of Blandings looked up from his desk. It was only some half-hour since had finished, but already he was in the library by large books like a sea-beast among rocks. Most of his time was in the library when the was full of guests, for his mind was ill-attuned to the of Society butterflies.
“I wonder if you me this afternoon?” said Eve.
Baxter the of his upon her inquisitorially.
“The whole afternoon?”
“If you don’t mind. You see, I had a by the second post from a great friend of mine, saying that she will be in Market Blandings this and me to meet her there. I must see her, Mr. Baxter, please. You’ve no how it is.”
Eve’s manner was excited, and her as they met Baxter’s in a fashion that might have a man of less stuff. If it had been the Hon. Freddie Threepwood, for instance, who had been into their depths, that would have himself into and like a dog. Baxter, the superman, no any such display. He her and judicially, and that it was a one.
“Very well, Miss Halliday.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll make up for it by twice as hard to-morrow.”
Eve to the door, there to a upon him going out; and Baxter returned to his reading. For a moment he was of a of that this and girl should be the partner in of a man of he more than he of most malefactors. Then he the weak and was himself again.
Eve downstairs, to herself. She had a longer and more she her order of release, and told herself that, despite a manner which from the forbidding, Baxter was nice. In short, it to her that nothing possibly to the of this afternoon; and it was only when a voice her as she was going through the a minutes later that she that she was mistaken. The voice, which throatily, was that of the Hon. Freddie; and her look at him told Eve, an expert diagnostician, that he was going to to her again.
“Well, Freddie?” said Eve resignedly.
The Hon. Frederick Threepwood was a man who was used to people say “Well, Freddie?” when he appeared. His father said it; his Aunt Constance said it; all his other and said it. Widely in every other respect, they all said “Well, Freddie?” directly they of him. Eve’s words, therefore, and the in which they were spoken, did not him as they might have another. His only was one of at the that at last he had managed to her alone for a minute.
The that this was the time he had been able to her alone since her at the had Freddie a good of sorrow. Bad luck was what he it to, the object of his less than was her for a policy of evasion. He up, looking like a well-dressed sheep.
“Going anywhere?” he inquired.
“Yes. I’m going to Market Blandings. Isn’t it a afternoon? I you are all the time now that the house is full? Good-bye,” said Eve.
“Eh?” said Freddie, blinking.
“Good-bye. I must be hurrying.”
“Where did you say you were going?”
“Market Blandings.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, I want to be alone. I’ve got to meet someone there.”
“Come with you as as the gates,” said Freddie, the limpet.
The sun to Eve to be a little less as they started the drive. She was a kind-hearted girl, and it her to have to be acting as a black in Freddie’s garden of dreams. There appeared, however, to be but two out of the thing: either she must accept him or he must stop proposing. The of these she to consider, and, as as was from his actions, Freddie just as to the second. The result was that them were free from developments.
They walked for a while in silence. Then:
“You’re hard on a fellow,” said Freddie.
“How’s your on?” asked Eve.
“Eh?”
“Your putting. You told me you had so much trouble with it.”
She was not looking at him, for she had a of not looking at him on these occasions; but she that the odd which her was a hollow, laugh.
“My putting!”
“Well, you told me it’s the most part of golf.”
“Golf! Do you think I have time to worry about these days?”
“Oh, how splendid, Freddie! Are you doing some work of some kind? It’s time, you know. Think how pleased your father will be.”
“I say,” said Freddie, “I do think you might a chap.”
“I I shall some day,” said Eve, “if I meet the right one.”
“No, no!” said Freddie despairingly. She was not so as this. He had always looked on her as a girl. “I me.”
Eve sighed. She had to the inevitable.
“Oh, Freddie!” she exclaimed, exasperated. She was still sorry for him, but she not help being irritated. It was such a and she had been so happy. And now he had everything. It always took her at least an hour to over the of his proposals.
“I love you, it!” said Freddie.
“Well, do stop me,” said Eve. “I’m an girl, really. I’d make you miserable.”
“Happiest man in the world,” Freddie devoutly.
“I’ve got a temper.”
“You’re an angel.”
Eve’s increased. She always had a that one of these days, if he on proposing, she might say “Yes” by mistake. She that there was some way to science of stopping him once and for all. And in her she of a line of which she had not yet employed.
“It’s so absurd, Freddie,” she said. “Really, it is. Apart from the that I don’t want to you, how can you anyone—anyone, I mean, who hasn’t of money?”
“Wouldn’t of marrying for money.”
“No, of not, but . . .”
“Cupid,” said Freddie woodenly, “pines and in a cage.”
Eve had not to be by anything her might say, it being her that he a of about forty-three and a sum-total of ideas that ran into two figures; but this took her back.
“What!”
Freddie the observation. When it had been on the screen as a spoken sub-title in the six-reel wonder film, “Love or Mammon” (Beatrice Comely and Brian Fraser), he had and a note of it.
“Oh!” said Eve, and was silent. As Miss Peavey would have put it, it her for a while. “What I meant,” she on after a moment, “was that you can’t possibly a girl without money unless you’ve some money of your own.”
“I say, it!” A note of had come into the wooer’s voice. “I say, is that all that us? Because . . .”
“No, it isn’t!”
“Because, look here, I’m going to have a good of money at any moment. It’s more or less of a secret, you know—in a secret—so keep it dark, but Uncle Joe is going to give me a of thousand quid. He promised me. Two thousand of the crispest. Absolutely!”
“Uncle Joe?”
“You know. Old Keeble. He’s going to give me a of thousand quid, and then I’m going to a partnership in a bookie’s and coin money. Stands to reason, I mean. You can’t help making your fortune. Look at all the who are money all the time at the races. It’s the that the stuff. A of mine who was up at Oxford with me is in a bookie’s office, and they’re going to let me in if I . . .”
The nature of his had Eve to now from her policy of her off Freddie when in vein. And, if she had to check his lecture on finance, she have no method than to look at him; for, meeting her gaze, Freddie the of his and yammering. A direct from Eve’s always him in this way.
“Mr. Keeble is going to give you two thousand pounds!”
A of over Eve. If there was one thing on which she herself, it was the that she was a friend, a pal; and now for the time she herself the truth that she had been Phyllis Jackson’s in the most way since she had come to Blandings. She had definitely promised Phyllis that she would this of hers and him with into up the three thousand which Phyllis needed so for her Lincolnshire farm. And what had she done? Nothing.
Eve was to the core, in her with herself. A less girl might have that she had had no opportunity of a private with Mr. Keeble. She to herself with this plea. If she had her mind to it she have about a dozen private interviews, and she it. No. She had allowed the of Psmith to take up her time, and Phyllis and her had been into the background. She confessed, herself, that she had Phyllis a thought.
And all the while this Mr. Keeble had been in a position to largess, thousands of of it, to people like Freddie. Why, a word from her about Phyllis would have . . .
“Two thousand pounds?” she dizzily. “Mr. Keeble!”
“Absolutely!” Freddie radiantly. The of looking into her had passed, and he was now in that occupation.
“What for?”
Freddie’s flickered. Love, he perceived, had nearly him to be indiscreet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “He’s just it me, you know, don’t you know.”
“Did you go to him and ask him for it?”
“Well—er—well, yes. That was about the of it.”
“And he didn’t object?”
“No. He pleased.”
“Pleased!” Eve difficult. She was like a man who that the in his which he has been for months is a goldmine. If the operation of money from Mr. Keeble was not only easy but also to the . . . She aware of a need for Freddie’s absence. She wanted to think this thing over.
“Well, then,” said Freddie, “coming to it, will you?”
“What?” said Eve, distrait.
“Marry me, you know. What I to say is, I the very ground you walk on, and all that of . . . I mean, and all that. And now that you that I’m going to this of thousand . . . and the bookie’s . . . and what not, I to say . . .”
“Freddie,” said Eve tensely, her nerves in a voice that came through teeth, “go away!”
“Eh?”
“I don’t want to you, and I’m of having to keep on telling you so. Will you go away and me alone?” She stopped. Her of told her that she was off on her which should have been on herself. “I’m sorry, Freddie,” she said, softening; “I didn’t to be such a as that. I know you’re of me, but really, I can’t you. You don’t want to a girl who doesn’t love you, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Freddie stoutly. “If it’s you, I mean. Love is a that can wither, but if and in the of an . . .”
“But, Freddie.”
“Blossoms into a flower,” Freddie rapidly. “What I to say is, love would come after marriage.”
“Nonsense!”
“Well, that’s the way it in ‘A Society Mating.’”
“Freddie,” said Eve, “I don’t want to talk any more. Will you be a dear and just go away? I’ve got a of to do.”
“Oh, thinking?” said Freddie, impressed. “Right ho!”
“Thank you so much.”
“Oh—er—not at all. Well, pip-pip.”
“Good-bye.”
“See you later, what?”
“Of course, of course.”
“Fine! Well, toodle-oo!”
And the Hon. Freddie, not ill-pleased—for it to him that at long last he of melting in the party of the second part—swivelled on his long and started for home.
§ 3
The little town of Market Blandings was a peaceful as it slept in the sun. For the time since Freddie had left her, Eve of a as she entered the old High Street, which was the centre of the place’s life and thought. Market Blandings had a air of having been the same for centuries. Troubles might the it housed, but they did not worry that church with its four-square tower, those red-roofed shops, the age-old second so out over the pavements. As Eve walked in slow the “Emsworth Arms,” the which was her objective, met her gaze, opening with a to of all and green. There was about the High Street of Market Blandings a of a close. Nothing was modern in it the moving-picture house—and that called itself an Electric Theatre, and was ivy-covered and by gables.
On second thoughts, that is too sweeping. There was one other modern in the High Street—Jno. Banks, Hairdresser, to wit, and Eve was just of Mr. Banks’s now.
In any ordinary these would have been a sight, but in Market Blandings they were almost an eyesore; and Eve, herself at the door, was out of her as if she had a false note in a anthem. She was on the point of past, when the door opened and a short, solid came out. And at the of this short, solid Eve stopped abruptly.
It was with the object of his in for the County Ball that Joseph Keeble had come to Mr. Banks’s shop as soon as he had lunch. As he now into the High Street he was why he had permitted Mr. Banks to off the job with a heliotrope-scented hair-wash. It to Mr. Keeble that the air was with heliotrope, and it came to him that was a which he always particularly objectionable.
Ordinarily Joseph Keeble was to an iron to who to upon him; and the his had under the of Jno. Banks was that the second post, which at the at the hour, had him a from his Phyllis—the second he had had from her since the one which had him to his wife in the smoking-room. Immediately after the of his with the Hon. Freddie, he had to Phyllis in a of by Freddie’s promises, assuring her that at any moment he would be in a position to send her the three thousand which she to the purchase of that dream-farm in Lincolnshire. To this she had with thanks. And after that there had been a of days and still he had not good. Phyllis was worried, and said so in six closely-written pages.
Mr. Keeble, as he sat in the barber’s chair going over this in his mind, had in spirit, while Jno. Banks with did what he liked with the bottle. Not for the time since the of their partnership, Joseph Keeble was with as to his in a so as the of his wife’s diamond necklace to one of his nephew Freddie’s of intellect. Here, he told himself unhappily, was a job of work which would have the of a of Charles Peace and the James Brothers, and he had put it in the hands of a man who in all his life had only once and initiative—on the occasion when he had his in the middle at a time when all the other members of the Bachelors’ Club were it back. The more Mr. Keeble of Freddie’s chances, the they appeared. By the time Jno. Banks had him from the he was pessimistic, and as he passed out of the door, “so that the were love-sick with him,” his of his colleague’s was to a point where he to the of a milk-can was not his scope. So was he in these that Eve had to call his name twice he came out of them.
“Miss Halliday?” he said apologetically. “I your pardon. I was thinking.”
Eve, though they had a word since her at the castle, had taken a to Mr. Keeble; and she in none of the which might have her in the of an with another man. By nature direct and straightforward, she came to the point at once.
“Can you me a moment or two, Mr. Keeble?” she said. She at the clock on the church tower and saw that she had time her own appointment. “I want to talk to you about Phyllis.” Mr. Keeble his in astonishment, and the world with heliotrope. It was as if the Voice of Conscience had him.
“Phyllis!” he gasped, and the in his breast-pocket.
“Your Phyllis.”
“Do you know her?”
“She was my best friend at school. I had tea with her just I came to the castle.”
“Extraordinary!” said Mr. Keeble.
A in of a himself them and into the shop. They moved away a paces.
“Of if you say it is none of my . . .”
“My dear lady . . .”
“Well, it is my business, she’s my friend,” said Eve firmly. “Mr. Keeble, Phyllis told me she had to you about that farm. Why don’t you help her?”
The was warm, but not warm to account for the of Mr. Keeble’s brow. He out a large and his forehead. A look was in his eyes. The hand which was not with the had his pocket and was keys.
“I want to help her. I would do anything in the world to help her.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I—I am situated.”
“Yes, Phyllis told me something about that. I can see that it is a difficult position for you. But, Mr. Keeble, surely, surely if you can manage to give Freddie Threepwood two thousand to start a bookmaker’s . . .”
Her were cut by a from her companion. Sheer panic was in his now, and in his an that he had been to in in the company of a talking-machine like his nephew Freddie. This girl knew! And if she knew, how many others knew? The had his into the ears of every being in the place who would to him.
“He told you!” he stammered. “He t-told you!”
“Yes. Just now.”
“Goosh!” Mr. Keeble brokenly.
Eve at him in surprise. She not this emotion. The handkerchief, after a session, was now, and he was looking at her imploringly.
“You haven’t told anyone?” he hoarsely.
“Of not. I said I had only of it just now.”
“You wouldn’t tell anyone?”
“Why should I?”
Mr. Keeble’s breath, which had to him for a moment gone for ever, to return timidly. Relief for a space him dumb. What nonsense, he reflected, these newspapers and people talked about the modern girl. It was this very broad-mindedness of hers, to which they so absurdly, that her a of such charm. She might in in a fashion that would have her grandmother, but how it was to her and in the of another’s crime. His to Eve.
“You’re wonderful!” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Of course,” Mr. Keeble, “it isn’t stealing.”
“What!”
“I shall my wife another necklace.”
“You will—what?”
“So will be all right. Constance will be perfectly happy, and Phyllis will have her money, and . . .”
Something in Eve’s to Mr. Keeble.
“Don’t you know?” he off.
“Know? Know what?”
Mr. Keeble that he had Freddie. The had been a to mention the money to this girl, but he had at least, it seemed, stopped of the entire plot. An oyster-like came upon him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said hastily. “Forget what I was going to say. Well, I must be going, I must be going.”
Eve at his sleeve. Unintelligible though his had been, one had come home to her, the one about Phyllis having her money. It was no time for half-measures. She him.
“Mr. Keeble,” she urgently. “I don’t know what you mean, but you were just going to say something which . . . Mr. Keeble, do trust me. I’m Phyllis’s best friend, and if you’ve out any way of helping her I wish you would tell me . . . You must tell me. I might be able to help . . .”
Mr. Keeble, as she her speech, had been with to his from her grasp. But now he to struggle. Those of Freddie’s efficiency, which had him in Jno. Banks’s chair, still lingered. His opinion that Freddie was but a had not changed. Indeed, it had grown. He looked at Eve. He looked at her searchingly. Into her he a that to her soul, and saw there honesty, sympathy, and—better still—intelligence. He might have and into Freddie’s for without a of such intelligence. His mind was up. This girl was an ally. A girl of and vigour. A girl a thousand Freddies—not, however, Mr. Keeble, that that was saying much. He no longer.
“It’s like this,” said Mr. Keeble.
§ 4
The information, to him by Lady Constance, that he was that night to read select passages from Ralston McTodd’s Songs of Squalor to the entire house-party assembled in the big drawing-room, had come as a complete to Psmith, and to his fellow-guests—such of them as were and of the sex—as a from which they it hard to rally. True, they had now in a of way that he was one of those fellows, but so normal and had they his whole manner and that it had to them that he anything up his as as Songs of Squalor. Among these members of the set the of opinion was that it was a thick, and that at such a price the of Blandings was having. Only those who had visited the the of her ladyship’s with Art have been as resigned. These that while this latest was going to be bad, he be than the who had on Theosophy last November, and must almost of be than the bird who the Shifley race-week had in a two-hour to them to vegetarianism.
Psmith himself the with equanimity. He was not one of those the of speaking in public with horror. He liked the of his own voice, and night, when it came, him cheerful. He to the of the drawing-room up as he on the star-lit terrace, a last cigarette called him elsewhere. And when, some yards away, seated on the out into the darkness, he Eve Halliday, his of well-being acute.
All day he had been of a for another of those with Eve which had done so much to make life for him his at Blandings. Her prejudice—which he deplored—in of doing a amount of work to her salary, had him the away from the little room off the library where she was to books; and when he had gone there after he had it empty. As he approached her now, he was of all those walks, those excellent on the lake, and those which had gone to his that of all possible girls she was the only possible one. It to him that in to being she out all that was best in him of and soul. That is to say, she let him talk and longer than any girl he had known.
It him as a little that she no move to him. She of his approach. And yet the night was not of such as to him from view—and, if she not see him, she must have him; for only a moment he had with some over a large flower-pot, one of a of sixteen which Angus McAllister, for some good purpose, had in the that afternoon.
“A night,” he said, seating himself her on the wall.
She her for a instant, and, having it, looked away again.
“Yes,” she said.
Her manner was not effusive, but Psmith persevered.
“The stars,” he proceeded, them with a yet not of the hand. “Bright, twinkling, and—if I may say so—rather arranged. When I was a lad, someone name I cannot me which was Orion. Also Mars, Venus, and Jupiter. This of knowledge has, I am happy to say, long since passed from my mind. However, I am in a position to that that thing up there a little to the right is King Charles’s Wain.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, indeed, I you.” It Psmith that Astronomy was not his audience, so he Travel. “I hear,” he said, “you to Market Blandings this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“An settlement.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Psmith his and it thoughtfully. The night to him to have taken on a touch of chill.
“What I like about the English districts,” he on, “is that when the have a place they stop. Somewhere about the of Henry the Eighth, I that the master-mason gave the final house a with his and said, ‘Well, boys, that’s Market Blandings.’ To which his no with many a ‘Grammercy!’ and ‘I’fackins!’ these being to which they were much addicted. And they away and left it, and nobody has touched it since. And I, for one, approve. I think it makes the place soothing. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
As as the would permit, Psmith Eve to an through his monocle. This was a new mood in which he had her. Hitherto, though she had always herself to him by him the major of the dialogue, they had on at least a seventy-five—twenty-five basis. And though it Psmith to be allowed to deliver a when talking with most people, he Eve more when in a vein.
“Are you in to me read?” he asked.
“No.”
It was a from “Yes,” but that was the best that be said of it. A good of was always to Psmith, but he not help a of buoyancy. However, he on trying.
“You your good sense,” he said approvingly. “A method of the night be upon.” He the of the reading. It did not grip. That was manifest. It appeal. “I to Market Blandings this afternoon, too,” he said. “Comrade Baxter me that you had gone thither, so I after you. Not being able to you, I in for an hour at the local moving-picture palace. They were Episode Eleven of a serial. It with the heroine, by Indians, on the with the high-priest making at her with a knife. The hero meanwhile had started to climb a on his way to the rescue. The final picture was a close-up of his slowly off a rock. Episode Twelve next week.”
Eve looked out into the night without speaking.
“I’m it won’t end happily,” said Psmith with a sigh. “I think he’ll save her.”
Eve on him with a abruptness.
“Shall I tell you why I to Market Blandings this afternoon?” she said.
“Do,” said Psmith cordially. “It is not for me to criticise, but as a of I was when you were going to telling me all about your adventures. I have been the conversation.”
“I to meet Cynthia.”
Psmith’s out of his and on its cord. He was not easily disconcerted, but this piece of information, on top of her manner, him. He difficulties, and once again himself hard of this female who up when least expected. How life would have been, he wistfully, had Ralston McTodd only had the good to a bachelor.
“Oh, Cynthia?” he said.
“Yes, Cynthia,” said Eve. The Mrs. McTodd a Christian name for being teeth, and Eve it in this fashion now. It to Psmith that the dear girl was in a condition of and that trouble was his way. He himself to meet it.
“Directly after we had that talk on the lake, the day I arrived,” Eve tersely, “I to Cynthia, telling her to come here at once and meet me at the ‘Emsworth Arms’ . . .”
“In the High Street,” said Psmith. “I know it. Good beer.”
“What!”
“I said they sell good . . .”
“Never mind about the beer,” Eve.
“No, no. I mentioned it in passing.”
“At to-day I got a from her saying that she would be there this afternoon. So I off. I wanted——” Eve laughed a hollow, laugh of a which the Hon. Freddie Threepwood would have his powers, and he was a specialist—“I wanted to try to you two together. I that if I see her and have a talk with her that you might reconciled.”
Psmith, though with a that he was in the last ditch, himself together to her hand as it him on the like some white and flower.
“That was like you,” he murmured. “That was an act of your great heart. But I that the Cynthia and myself has such . . .”
Eve her hand away. She round, and the of her him furiously.
“I saw Cynthia,” she said, “and she told me that her husband was in Paris.”
“Now, how in the world,” said Psmith, but with a that they were over the plate a too fast for him, “how in the world did she an idea like that?”
“Do you want to know?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Then I’ll tell you. She got the idea she had had a from him, her to join him there. She had just telling me this, when I of you from the window, walking along the High Street. I pointed you out to Cynthia, and she said she had you in her life.”
“Women soon forget,” Psmith.
“The only I can for you,” Eve in a by the that somebody had just from the door and they no longer had the to themselves, “is that you’re mad. When I think of all you said to me about Cynthia on the that afternoon, when I think of all the I on you . . .”
“Not wasted,” Psmith firmly. “It was by no means wasted. It me love you—if possible—even more.”
Eve had that she had on a which would last until she had off her and again, but this the of her so that all she do was to at him in silence.
“Womanly intuition,” Psmith gravely, “will have told you long this that I love you with a which with my I cannot to express. True, as you are about to say, we have each other but a time, as time is measured. But what of that?”
Eve her eyebrows. Her voice was cold and hostile.
“After what has happened,” she said, “I I ought not to be at you of anything, but—are you this moment to—to to me?”
“To a word of your own—yes.”
“And you me to take you seriously?”
“Assuredly not. I look upon the present purely as a shot. You may it, if you will, as a of proclamation. I wish to go on record as an to your hand. I want you, if you will be so good, to make a note of my and give them a from time to time. As Comrade Cootes—a friend of mine you have not yet met—would say, ‘Chew on them.’”
“I . . .”
“It is possible,” Psmith, “that black moments will come to you—for they come to all of us, the sunniest—when you will saying, ‘Nobody loves me!’ On such occasions I should like you to add, ‘No, I am wrong. There is somebody who loves me.’ At first, it may be, that will but balm. Gradually, however, as the days go by and we are together and my nature itself you like the of some flower the of the sun . . .”
Eve’s opened wider. She had herself of astonishment, but she saw that she had been mistaken.
“You surely aren’t of on here now?” she gasped.
“Most decidedly. Why not?”
“But—but what is to prevent me telling that you are not Mr. McTodd?”
“Your sweet, nature,” said Psmith. “Your big heart. Your forbearance.”
“Oh!”
“Considering that I only came here as McTodd—and if you had him you would that he is not a person for the man of and would allow himself to be mistaken—I say that I only took on the job of so as to to the and be near you, I think that you will be able to to me out. You must try to what happened. When Lord Emsworth started with me under the that I was Comrade McTodd, I the mistake purely with the of him at his ease. Even when he me that he was me to come to Blandings with him on the five o’clock train, it to me to do so. It was only when I saw you talking to him in the and he the that you were about to his that I that there was no other open to the man of spirit. Consider! Twice that day you had passed out of my life—may I say taking the with you?—and I to you might pass out of it for ever. So, though I was to the of myself in this happy home under false pretences, I see no other way. And here I am!”
“You must be mad!”
“Well, as I was saying, the days will go by, you will have opportunity of studying my personality, and it is possible that in season the love of an may you as having. I may add that I have loved you since the moment when I saw you from the rain under that in Dover Street, and I saying as much to Comrade Walderwick when he was with me some time later on the of his umbrella. I do not press you for an answer now . . .”
“I should not!”
“I say ‘Think it over.’ It is nothing to you distress. Other men love you. Freddie Threepwood loves you. Just add me to the list. That is all I ask. Muse on me from time to time. Reflect that I may be an taste. You did not like the time you them. Now you do. Give me the same you would an olive. Consider, also, how little you actually have against me. What, indeed, it amount to, when you come to it narrowly? All you have against me is the that I am not Ralston McTodd. Think how people are Ralston McTodd. Let your along these lines and . . .”
He off, for at this moment the who had come out of the door a while them, and the of on him as the Efficient Baxter.
“Everybody is waiting, Mr. McTodd,” said the Efficient Baxter. He spoke the name, as always, with a emphasis.
“Of course,” said Psmith affably, “of course. I was forgetting. I will to work at once. You are sure you do not wish to a of modern poetry, Miss Halliday?”
“Quite sure.”
“And yet now, so our friend here us, a of and is the drawing-room, for the treat. Well, well! It is these of personal taste which what we call Life. I think I will a about it some day. Come, Comrade Baxter, let us be up and doing. I must not my public.”
For some moments after the two had left her—Baxter and chilly, Psmith, all chumminess, the other’s arm and pointing out as they objects of by the wayside—Eve on the wall, thinking. She was laughing now, but her there was another feeling, and one that her. A good many men had to her in the of her career, but none of them had left her with this odd of exhilaration. Psmith was different from any other man who had come her way, and was a quality which Eve esteemed. . . .
She had just the that life for girl might decide to it in Psmith’s company would be dull, when doings in her her from her meditations.
The thing as she rose from her seat on the and started to the on her way to the door. She had stopped for an the open window of the drawing-room to to what was going on inside. Faintly, with something of the quality of a far-off phonograph, the of Psmith reading came to her; and at this there was a about his voice which a to her lips.
And then, with a abruptness, the window was dark. And she was aware that all the on that of the had dark. The lamp that over the great door to shine. And above the of voices in the drawing-room she Psmith’s patient drawl.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think the lights have gone out.”
The night air was rent by a single scream. Something like a star and at her feet; and, stooping, Eve in her hands Lady Constance Keeble’s diamond necklace.
§ 5
To be prepared is in this life. Ever since her talk with Mr. Joseph Keeble in the High Street of Market Blandings that Eve’s mind had been from one to another, all designed to end in this very act of the necklace in her hands and each by some flaw. And now that Fate in its way had for her what she had to she for herself, she no time in inaction. The her for it.
For an she with herself the of a through the up the stairs to her room. But the lights might go on again, and she might meet someone. Memories of read in the past told her that on occasions such as this people were and searched. . . .
Suddenly, as she there, she the way. Close her, on its side, was the flower-pot which Psmith had as he came to join her on the wall. It might have as a cache, but at the moment she none. Most flower-pots are alike, but this was a particularly easily-remembered flower-pot: for in its from the to the it had on its a of white paint. She would be able to it from its when, late that night, she out to the spoil. And surely nobody would think of . . .
She her into the soft mould, and herself, quickly. It was not an piece of work, but it would serve.
She her on the turf, put the flower-pot in the with the others, and then, like a white phantom, across the and into the house. And so with heart, her way, to the to wash her hands.
The twenty-thousand-pound flower-pot looked up at the stars.
§ 6
It was two minutes later that Mr. Cootes, lustily, the of the house and on to the terrace. Late as usual.
