It was, for him, a long letter, four pages of writing which began by being small and neat and which ended up large and untidy. In it he suggested that Poppy should return to him at once. He said that his house was getting very uncomfortable, the cook had given notice and the housemaid, although he reminded her daily, either could not or would not send the loose covers to be cleaned. He considered too, that the weekly books were over large. He then went on to say, towards the end of the second page, that no other woman would ever mean much in his life, and that if she was prepared to let bygones be bygones he would be glad to welcome her home again. No direct reference to the detectives or the débutante. Poppy wondered what she would do. Anthony St Julien was, after all, her husband, and she loved her little house in Chapel Street. She did not have to close her eyes in order to visualize her drawing-room with its trellis wallpaper, red plush curtains and satinwood furniture. It would be much harder to leave a dwelling to which she was singularly devoted, than a husband for whom devotion was now a thing of the past. In a position in which many women would be weighing an old loyalty against a new passion, she found herself wondering whether it would be possible to smuggle her writing-table out of the house, should she decide to throw in her lot with Mr Aspect. This indecision in no way troubled her, she felt sure that once the Grand Union Jackshirt Pageant and Garden Party was over she would with certainty know her own mind.
Noel also found a letter that morning. It was from one of the uncles and informed him that he should go to London as soon as might be, when an interview would be arranged for him with a Viennese banker who might be feeling disposed to offer him employment. He immediately sent off a telegram to the uncle saying that he would be in London the following day.
When all were ready, they packed into the motor car which kind Mr Birk had placed at their disposal, and were driven to Chalford Park. In and around the house a state of chaos reigned, it was hard to imagine that things would ever straighten themselves out. Workmen, Social Unionists, the Women’s Institute and a multitude of reporters were falling over each other outside, whilst inside, Miss Trant and Mrs Lace were engaged in a battle royal over dressing-rooms. Fourteen large bedrooms had been placed at their disposal for this purpose by Lady Chalford, and Mrs Lace was insisting that she would need, in order to dress those appearing in the Chalford episode, at least seven. As she was responsible for dressing twenty people, and as Miss Trant was expecting to have at least two hundred on her hands, it was felt that Mrs Lace’s demands were disproportionate. Finally, after a long and enraged argument, Mrs Lace was persuaded to make do with three rooms only. These she now proceeded to deck out with finery, laying dresses all over the beds and chairs, and covering the tables with accessories. Jasper and Poppy wandered in to have a look, and concluded that Mrs Lace had sat for too long at the feet of the Rackenbridge young men. Her ideas on dressing up were very modern.
‘I rather think,’ said Jasper, in one of his loud asides, ‘that these American-cloth kirtles, cardboard wigs and cellophane fichus are going to look very peculiar alongside the two hundred Dolly Varden and Dresden Shepherd dresses hired by darling Miss Trant from the Oxford costumier.’
‘I say, they are ugly,’ murmured Poppy, ‘have I really got to wear this monstrosity of a wig?’
‘It’s your own fault, darling, you wouldn’t take the trouble to get a dress for yourself and now you are at the mercy of Rackenbridge taste. Serves you right too.’
Lady Marjorie looked quite wild with excitement and ran about looking for Mr Wilkins, saying, ‘I can’t wait, I can’t wait.’ Mr Wilkins, however, had not yet appeared on the scene.
The morning passed in a flash.
Lady Chalford, who was thoroughly enjoying the unwonted bustle, begged that everybody would stay on for a cold luncheon, to which she had already invited the curator of Peersmont and his charges. The years seemed to have rolled away from her on this occasion; she looked like a young woman as she greeted her old friend the Duke of Driburgh and those two of his colleagues considered by the curator as suitable candidates for the day’s outing.
The duke, however, slipped away from her side as soon as he decently could and made a bee-line for Poppy, whom he embarrassed considerably with his attentions. When luncheon-time came he manoeuvred that she should sit next him, kept his knee clamped against hers during the entire meal and held her hand between the courses. When she tried to thank him for the tiara he ogled her fearfully and dropped a few mysterious hints.
‘How is Lord Rousham?’ she asked, to change the subject.
‘Off his diet, I am sorry to say. Won’t eat anything now, except the coco-nuts and bits of suet we put out for the tits. Gunnersbury is busy making a nesting box for him, meddling old idiot, he always has fussed over housing conditions, and so on. I’ve no patience with his silly Socialistic ideas; if a man likes to build his own nest, let him. Trade Unions have been the downfall of this country you mark my words, young lady.’
After luncheon the duke led Poppy into the recess of a window and proposed marriage
