When finally they did turn up, fearfully late, and accompanied by a stockingless Eugenia, they all seemed to be in the last stages of exhaustion. ‘We are quite worn out, you see,’ Jasper explained politely, ‘by Eugenia’s party. It was an absolute riot from beginning to end. We think she is a genius: Eugenia, Eugenius, E.U.G.E.N.I.A. Eugenia.’
‘It was too lovely,’ said Lady Marjorie, who appeared far less languid than usual. She had colour in her cheeks and her eyes shone. ‘But why didn’t you come, Mrs Lace; you can’t imagine what a lovely party it was.’
‘We sang Jackshirt hymns for hours outside the head-quarters,’ said Poppy. ‘“Onward Union Jackshirts” – D’you know that one; shall we teach it you, another time perhaps? Then we went for a wonderful march with a band playing and we each carried a Union Jack. Marge and I have both joined up. The Comrades were heaven, so beautiful-looking.’
They all fell into chairs and fanned themselves. Poppy and Marjorie looked anything but smart London ladies, calculated to impress local housewives. Eugenia, her eye suddenly lighting upon Mr Leader pointed him out to Poppy, saying in a stage whisper, ‘He’s a well-known Pacifist. Shall we give him Union Jackshirt justice?’
‘Not now,’ Poppy whispered back, ‘we’re all much too tired.’
A sort of blight now began to fall on Mrs Lace’s party. It was dreadful for her because nobody was behaving in the way she had planned they should. Most of the neighbours had gone home to their early dinners and those that remained formed little knots in the garden, talking to each other about sport or to Major Lace about the iniquities of the Milk Marketing Board. The Rackenbridge young men hung round the bar eating and drinking all they could lay their hands on, while her new friends were being in no way wonderful, but merely lay about the place in attitudes of extreme debility.
‘We are so tired,’ they reiterated apologetically, ‘you should have seen what a distance we marched, it was terrible. In this heat too, whew!’
Poppy, who had a conscience about these things, did whisper in Jasper’s ear that she thought they should mingle a bit more. Jasper replied, ‘Mingle then,’ but nothing happened.
Mrs Lace brought up Mr Leader and introduced him all round, saying, ‘It was Leslie who did these wonderful decorations for me. He is a Surréaliste you know.’
Poppy said, politely, ‘Oh! how interesting. Aren’t you the people who like intestines and pulling out babies’ eyes?’
Jasper said that he had once written a play, the whole action of which took place inside Jean Cocteau’s stomach. ‘Unfortunately I sold the film rights,’ he added, ‘otherwise you could have had them. The film was put on in Paris and many people had to leave the Jockey Club and stop being Roman Catholics because of it. I was pleased.’
Eugenia looked gloomily at Mr Leader, and said in a menacing voice, ‘You should see the inside of the new Social Unionist head-quarters.’
‘It’s even more exciting than the inside of Jean Cocteau’s stomach,’ added Jasper.
After these sallies conversation died, and poor Mr Leader presently wandered away. Noel now lay back and put a newspaper over his face – nobody could have supposed, to see him, that he was madly in love with his hostess, nor were her guests at all likely to go home with the impression that between these two people was undying romance. Mrs Lace looked at him in despair.
Worse things, however, were to befall her. Presently the hated Mr Wilkins, looking even less soigné than usual, and covered with white dust, was shepherded into the room by Major Lace, who rubbed his hands together saying, ‘Here’s dear old George at last – broke down twice on the way! Still, better late than never, eh! George? I thought that was your old bag of nails heard rattling up the drive. Cocktail or whisky and soda, eh?’
‘I absolutely love that man’s appearance,’ Lady Marjorie whispered to Poppy.
‘He certainly has a very whimsical face,’ Poppy agreed.
At this juncture Mrs Lace was called away from the room to speak on the telephone. One of the neighbours had left a dust-coat behind and would call for it the following day. ‘We loved your party,’ she added. ‘It was too bad we had to leave so early.’ Mrs Lace agreed that it was too bad, promised to keep the dust-coat quite safely, and returned to the drawing-room, where an extremely painful sight met her eyes.
Mr Wilkins was seated on a sofa between Mrs St Julien and Lady Marjorie who were both doubled up with laughter. Mr Aspect, and the nameless but exalted Noel, crouching on the floor beside them, also appeared to be highly amused, whilst Major Lace stood over the whole group with the expression of a conjurer who has just produced from his sleeve some enchanting toy.
‘And have you heard about the man who went into W. H. Smith?’ Mr Wilkins was saying.
‘No,’ they cried, in chorus.
‘He said to the girl behind the counter, “Do you keep stationery?” And she said, “No, I always wriggle.”’
Roars of laughter greeted this story.
‘And do you know about the man who was had up by the police?’
‘No.’
‘They said, “Anything you say will be held against you.” He said, “Anything I say will be held against me?” and they said, “Yes,” and he said, “Right oh, then, Greta Garbo.”’
As Mrs Lace gazed with disgust upon this scene, she was approached by Mr Leader, who, looking as if he had a bad smell under his nose, came up to say good-bye.
‘I will walk down the garden with you,’ she said, glad of any excuse to take her away from hateful Mr Wilkins and his success.
‘Dear, lovely Anne-Marie,’ said Mr Leader, putting his hand
