‘But you’re married already, Duke,’ she cried, in order to gain time. There was a wild look in his eye which she did not altogether like.
‘Ah, you think I am old-fashioned, behind the times, eh, what? But I have been getting very modern in my outlook lately I can assure you, and I understand that nowadays it is perfectly usual to be engaged while one is still married. Damned sensible idea. Now I suggest that we should give old Maud all the evidence she wants and then we could nip round to a registry office. What do you say to that, little lady? There are lots more pretty toys hanging on the tree where that tiara came from, you know.’
‘That will be lovely,’ said Poppy, ‘and now, Duke –’
‘Call me Adolphus.’
‘And now, Adolphus, I am really rather busy. If you will excuse me I think I should be going. But I will see you again soon.’
‘And for good, little lady, for good,’ cried the amorous Adolphus, leering after her.
Poppy, who had nothing whatever to do for at least another hour (they had lunched early and very quickly), escaped next door into the library, where she could hide herself from her admirer behind jutting-out bookcases. She was rather pleased to see that the daily papers were there, neatly arranged on a large round leather-topped table, and taking up The Times she began to glance through it in a desultory manner. Almost the first thing to meet her eye was the name of Anthony St Julien’s débutante heading the list of marriage announcements; the girl was engaged to a well-known polo player.
Poppy now understood the eagerness with which Anthony St Julien wanted her back again; she felt sorry for him, but at the same time considered that his behaviour was unnecessarily crude. He might have waited for a day or two. At the same time she was rather grateful to him for having been so caddish, as now, whatever course she should decide to take, she would be not treating him otherwise than as he deserved. Her thoughts once more turned towards the writing-table. It was rather heavy, but she and Jasper between them could probably carry it out in the middle of the night.
Presently she was sought out by Lady Marjorie, who looked quite ghoulishly hideous in mauve panniers of American-cloth over a skirt of bright silver mackintosh. The wire-netting wig made for her by Mrs Lace had proved too small and very painful to wear, so she had cast it away, and borrowed instead a Dolly Varden one from Miss Trant. This was of very untidy white horse-hair, which stood up in a fuzzy aureole round her head; a corkscrew curl fell behind one ear, and became more of a corkscrew and less of a curl at every step she took. The wig was rather too large for Lady Marjorie and her own dark hair strayed out behind, in spite of innumerable hairpins.
‘Gosh!’ said Poppy, trying not to look horrified at this apparition, ‘dressed already?’
‘There’s no need to be, for ages yet, but I wanted to get it over. I’m really too excited to sit still and wait.’
‘I had to hide in here,’ said Poppy, ‘because that awful old duke pounced me. In fact, he went so far as to propose marriage.’
‘Hity-tity, awful old duke indeed. When I think of the way you always go on to me about Osborne. So I suppose you have accepted with pleasure – do I congratulate you, darling?’
‘My darling Marge – that old duke?’
‘Nonsense. He’s a very nice old duke, much nicer than that mountain of pomposity you want me to marry. Darling, do I look all right?’
‘Lovely, darling.’
‘That’s good. Because – you know – Mr Wilkins. I wanted to look quite my best on his account, the angel. Oh, dear! it does seem hard I can’t drive in the coach with him.’
‘Never mind, I really think you have a better chance of getting off with him like this, because you’ll be sitting next him for hours on the platform, and when the episodes are over, Noel is going to escort the Local Beauty round the Olde Englyshe Fayre. That’ll be your big opportunity.’
‘Oh, I am excited! I keep feeling quite cold and shivery. The Social Unionists ought to be here any minute now in their charabancs. Do come and dress, Poppy, I feel too shy to go and look for Mr Wilkins by myself.’
Presently, to the accompaniment of Union Jackshirt songs, cheers and yells, the Comrades began to arrive. They appeared to be in the wildest of good spirits as they were shepherded by their district leaders into Miss Trant’s dressing-rooms, where they proceeded to cover their Union Jack shirts with cotton brocade coats and sateen breeches, or cotton brocade panniers and sateen skirts, according to their sex. Made-up jabots of cheap lace were tied round their necks and frills of it sewn to their sleeves, but these did not fit very well and in most cases a few inches of red, white and blue were to be seen poking out. Jasper, hot and perspiring in one of Mrs Lace’s artistic rubber suits, was taking his duties as producer with the utmost seriousness. He dashed about, a grubby piece of paper in one hand and megaphone in the other, admonishing the various district leaders and trying to make sure that all the groups had arrived upon the scene. Finally he stood on a chair and addressed them all through his megaphone.
‘Now, boys,’ he said, ‘there are one or two little things I wish to mention. The dress-rehearsal on Monday did not go off too well. Nobody was dressed, and you could hardly have called it a rehearsal. However, that’s not going to stop us from doing splendidly this afternoon. Now, I want you all to try and enter into the spirit of the age – remember, you are in the eighteenth century from now on. When the coach drives up with King George
