MORE ON THE FLOWER-POT THEME
I
N any in which a has been committed, the of the who go to make up that must of according to the in which the personal of each are by the outrage. Vivid in their own way as may be the of one who sees a fellow-citizen in a street, they differ in from those by the himself. And so, though the of Lady Constance Keeble’s diamond necklace had Blandings Castle to its depths, it had not all those present in the same way. It left the house-party into two of thought—the one in the material for and despondency, the other from it nothing but excitement.
To this those free who had at the of being into the drawing-room on the night to to Psmith’s reading of Songs of Squalor. It them now to think of what they would have missed, had Lady Constance’s to them to the for the billiard-room of which at the hour they had so wistfully. As as the Reggies, Berties, Claudes, and Archies at that moment Lord Emsworth’s were the thing was top-hole, priceless, and what the doctor ordered. They a great of their time going from one country-house to another, and as a the a little monotonous. A like that of the previous night gave a to life. And when they that, right on top of this binge, there was the County Ball, it to them that God was in His and all right with the world. They cigarettes in long holders, and in groups, like starlings.
The brigade, those with down, to their with distaste. These last were a small numerically, but very select. Lady Constance might have been as their and patroness. Morning her still in a on collapse. After breakfast, however, which she took in her room, and which was by an with Mr. Joseph Keeble, her husband, she considerably. Mr. Keeble, Lady Constance, magnificently. She had always loved him dearly, but so much as when, from the of her in to allow the to be in the bank, he her that he would her another necklace, just as good and every as much as the old one. It was at this point that Lady Constance almost from the ranks of gloom. She Mr. Keeble gratefully, and with something the egg at which she had been when he came in.
But a minutes later the of was by the of Mr. Keeble in the ranks of the despondent. He had that one of his agents, either Eve or Freddie, had been for the of the necklace. The that Freddie, by in his room, any in the had not him. He had results from Freddie. But when, after Lady Constance, he Eve and was a of history, with her of the necklace, and ending—like a modern novel—on the note of her the flower-pot gone, he too sat him and as as anyone.
Passing with a mention over Freddie, was the of among the set; over Lord Emsworth, who at twelve o’clock to that he had missed hours among his flower-beds; and over the Efficient Baxter, who was from sleep at twelve-fifteen by Thomas the on his door in order to hand him a note from his a cheque, and with his services; we come to Miss Peavey.
At twenty minutes past eleven on this when so much was to so many people, Miss Peavey in the Yew Alley at the of a tree about half-way the entrance and the point where the into the west wood. She appeared to be soliloquising. For, though were from her with rapidity, there to be no one in to they were being addressed. Only an would have noted a among the tree’s tightly-woven branches.
“You bone-headed fish,” the was saying with that which results from the up of a and nature, “isn’t there anything in this world you can do without over your and making a of it? All I ask of you is to under a window and up a jewels, and now you come and tell me . . .”
“But, Liz!” said the tree plaintively.
“I do all the difficult part of the job. All that there was left for you to was something a child of three have done on its ear. And now . . .”
“But, Liz! I’m telling you I couldn’t the stuff. I was there all right, but I couldn’t it.”
“You couldn’t it!” Miss Peavey at the soft with a shoe. “You’re the of Isaac that couldn’t a bass-drum in a telephone-booth. You didn’t look.”
“I did look. Honest, I did.”
“Well, the was there. I it the moment the lights out.”
“Somebody must have got there first, and it.”
“Who have got there first? Everybody was up in the room where I was.
“Am I sure? Am I . . .” The poetess’s voice off. She was the Yew Alley at a who had just entered. She a in a undertone. “Hsst! Cheese it, Ed. There’s someone coming.”
The two who had Miss Peavey to her to her were of opposite sexes—a tall girl with hair, and a man in white who at his through a single eyeglass. Miss Peavey at them as they approached. A had come to her at the of them. Mistrusting Psmith as she had done since Mr. Cootes had him for the that he was, the that they were so often together had her to her to Eve. It might, of course, be nothing but a friendship, here at the castle; but Miss Peavey had always that Eve would watching. And now, them together again this morning, it had come to her that she did not having Eve among the in the drawing-room last night. True, there had been many people present, but Eve’s was striking, and she was sure that she would have noticed her, if she had been there. And, if she had not been there, why should she not have been on the terrace? Somebody had been on the last night, that was certain. For all her in their conversation, Miss Peavey had not in her that a dumb-bell like Eddie Cootes would not have the necklace if it had been under the window on his arrival.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. McTodd,” she cooed. “I’m so about this terrible affair. Aren’t you, Miss Halliday?”
“Yes,” said Eve, and she had said a more word.
Psmith, for his part, was in more and mood than was his wont. He had the position of and life good. He was particularly pleased with the that he had Eve to with him this and his in the woods. Buoyant as was his temperament, he had been that last night’s on the might have had on their intimacy. He was now full of and all mankind—even Miss Peavey; and he on the a smile.
“We must always,” he said, “endeavour to look on the side. It was a pity, no doubt, that my reading last night had to be stopped at a cost of about twenty thousand to the Keeble coffers, but let us not that but for that timely I should have gone on for about another hour. I am like that. My friends have told me that when once I start talking it something in the nature of a to stop me. But, of course, there are to everything, and last night’s your to some extent?”
“I was frightened,” said Miss Peavey. She to Eve with a shiver. “Weren’t you, Miss Halliday?”
“I wasn’t there,” said Eve absently.
“Miss Halliday,” Psmith, “has had in the last days some little of myself as orator, and with her good not to go out of her way to more of me than was necessary. I was a at the moment, but on it over came to the that she was perfectly in her attitude. I always in my to instruct, elevate, and entertain, but there is no the that a might of my chit-chat to be sufficient. Such, at any rate, was Miss Halliday’s view, and I her for it. But here I am, on again just when I can see that you wish to be alone. We will you, therefore, to muse. No we have been a train of which would have resulted but for my in a or a or some other morceau. Come, Miss Halliday. A and female,” he said to Eve as they out of hearing, “created for some purpose which I cannot fathom. Everything in this world, I like to think, is there for some useful end: but why the Miss Peavey on us is me. It is not too much to say that she me a pain in the gizzard.”
Miss Peavey, of these views, had them out of sight, and now she to the tree which her ally.
“Ed!”
“Hello?” the voice of Mr. Cootes.
“Did you hear?”
“No.”
“Oh, my heavens!” his partner. “He’s gone now! That girl—you didn’t what she was saying? She said that she wasn’t in the drawing-room when those lights out. Ed, she was on the terrace, that’s where she was, up the stuff. And if it isn’t in that McTodd’s there in the I’ll eat my Sunday rubbers.”
Eve, with Psmith at her side, her way through the wood. She was why she had come. She ought, she felt, to have been very cold and to this man after what had them last night. But somehow it was difficult to be cold and with Psmith. He her soul. By the time they the little and came in of the squat, shed-like with its and door, her spirits, always mercurial, had to a point where she herself almost able to her troubles.
“What a horrible-looking place!” she exclaimed. “Whatever did you want it for?”
“Purely as a nook,” said Psmith, taking out his key. “You know how the man of and needs a nook. In this age it is that the shall have a place, humble, where he can be alone.”
“But you aren’t a thinker.”
“You me. For the last days I have been doing some thinking. And the has taken its toll. The of life at Blandings is me away. There are dark circles under my and I see spots.” He opened the door. “Well, here we are. Will you in for a moment?”
Eve in. The single sitting-room of the out the promise of the exterior. It a table with a red cloth, a chair, three in a case on the wall, and a small sofa. A the place, as if a had died there in painful circumstances. Eve gave a little of distaste.
“I your criticism,” said Psmith. “You are saying to that plain and high is the of the on the Blandings estate. They are strong, men who little for the of decoration. But shall we them? If I had to most of the day and night and an on the local rabbits, I that in my off-hours anything with a would satisfy me. It was in the that you might be able to offer some and for small here and there that I you to my little place. There is no that it wants doing up a bit, by a woman’s hand. Will you take a look and give out a ideas? The wall-paper is, I fear, a fixture, but in every other direction untrammelled.”
Eve looked about her.
“Well,” she dubiously, “I don’t think . . .”
She stopped abruptly, all over. A second had her something which her careless had overlooked. Half by a curtain, there on the window-sill a large flower-pot a geranium. And across the surface of the flower-pot was a of white paint.
“You were saying . . . ?” said Psmith courteously.
Eve did not reply. She him. Her mind was in a whirl. A was itself in her brain.
“You are the shrub?” said Psmith. “I it about up at the this and it. I it would add a touch of colour to the place.”
Eve, looking at him as his to the flower-pot, told herself that her had been absurd. Surely this not be a for guilt.
“Where did you it?”
“By one of the in the hall, more or less its sweetness. I am to say I am a little in the thing. I had a of idea it would turn the old into a bower, but it doesn’t to.”
“It’s a geranium.”
“There,” said Psmith, “I cannot agree with you. It to me to have the or something.”
“It only wants watering.”
“And this little place to no water supply. I take it that the late when in used to to the door of the and what he needed in a bucket. If this plant that I am going to my time to and with refreshments, it is mistaken. To-morrow it goes into the dustbin.”
Eve her eyes. She was by a of having at a moment. She had the of a who all on a single throw.
“What a shame!” she said, and her voice, though she to it, shook. “You had give it to me. I’ll take of it. It’s just what I want for my room.”
“Pray take it,” said Psmith. “It isn’t mine, but pray take it. And very it is, let me add, that you should be gifts from me in this fashion; for it is well that there is no of the of the emotion—love,” he explained, “than this to presents from the hands of the adorer. I make progress, I make progress.”
“You don’t do anything of the kind,” said Eve. Her were and her sang her. In the of which had come to her on her she was aware of a warm this man.
“Pardon me,” said Psmith firmly. “I am an authority—Auntie Belle of Home Gossip.”
“I must be going,” said Eve. She took the flower-pot and it to her. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Work, work, always work!” Psmith. “The of the age. Well, I will you to your cell.”
“No, you won’t,” said Eve. “I mean, thank you for your offer, but I want to be alone.”
“Alone?” Psmith looked at her, astonished. “When you have the of being with me? This is a attitude.”
“Good-bye,” said Eve. “Thank you for being so and lavish. I’ll try to some and and to up this place.”
“Your presence that adequately,” said Psmith, her to the door. “By the way, returning to the we were last night, I to mention, when you to me, that I can do card-tricks.”
“Really?”
“And also a of a cat calling to her young. Has this no weight with you? Think! These come in very in the long winter evenings.”
“But I shan’t be there when you are cats in the long winter evenings.”
“I think you are wrong. As I my little home, I can see you there very clearly, the fire. Your has put you into something loose. The light of the itself in your eyes. You are after an afternoon’s shopping, but not so as to be unable to select a card—any card—from the pack which I offer . . .”
“Good-bye,” said Eve.
“If it must be so—good-bye. For the present. I shall see you anon?”
“I so.”
“Good! I will count the minutes.”
* * * * *
Eve walked away. As she the flower-pot under her arm she was like a child about to open its Christmas stocking. Before she had gone far, a stopped her and she Psmith in her wake.
“Can you me a moment?” said Psmith.
“Certainly.”
“I should have added that I can also ‘Gunga-Din.’ Will you think that over?”
“I will.”
“Thank you,” said Psmith. “Thank you. I have a that it may just turn the scale.”
He his and away again.
* * * * *
Eve herself unable to wait any longer. Psmith was out of now, and the was very still and empty. Birds in the branches, and the sun little of gold upon the ground. She a about her and in the of a tree.
The stopped singing. The sun no longer shone. The had cold and sinister. For Eve, with a of lead, was at a little of at her feet; which she had again and again in a frenzied, to a necklace which was not there.
The empty flower-pot to up at her in mockery.
