“I think he was something to do with the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Buildings,” said Paul. “Why?”
“Are you sure?” asked Potts in evident disappointment. “How maddening! I’ve been on a false scent again.”
“Are you doing Divorce Court shadowings, Potts?”
“No, no, it’s all to do with the League of Nations,” said Potts vaguely, and he called attention to the tank of octopuses which was so prominent a feature of the room in which they were standing.
Margot invited Potts to stay to dinner. He tried hard to make a good impression on Professor Silenus, but in this he was not successful. In fact, it was probably Potts’ visit which finally drove the Professor from the house. At any rate, he left early the next morning without troubling to pack or remove his luggage. Two days later, when they were all out, he arrived in a car and took away his mathematical instruments, and some time after that again appeared to fetch two clean handkerchiefs and a change of underclothes. That was the last time he was seen at King’s Thursday. When Margot and Paul went up to London, they had his luggage packed and left downstairs for him in case he should come again, but there it stayed, none of the male servants finding anything in it that he would care to wear. Long afterwards Margot saw the head gardener’s son going to church in a batik tie of Professor Silenus’s period. It was the last relic of a great genius, for before that King’s Thursday had been again rebuilt.
V
The Latin-American Entertainment Co. Ltd.
At the end of April Peter returned to Llanabba, Dr. Fagan having announced that the sale of the Castle had not been effected, and Margot and Paul went up to London to make arrangements for the wedding, which, contrary to all reasonable expectation, Margot decided was to take place in church with all the barbaric concomitants of bridesmaids, Mendelssohn, and Mumm. But before the wedding she had a good deal of South American business to see to.
“My first honeymoon was rather a bore,” she said, “so I’m not taking any chances with this one. I must get everything settled before we start, and then we’re going to have the three best months of your life.”
The work seemed to consist chiefly of interviewing young women for jobs in cabarets and as dancing partners. With some reluctance Margot allowed Paul to be present one morning as she saw a new batch. The room in which she conducted her business was the Sports Room, which had been decorated for her, in her absence, by little Davy Lennox, the society photographer. Two stuffed buffaloes stood one on each side of the door. The carpet was of grass-green marked out with white lines, and the walls were hung with netting. The lights were in glass footballs, and the furniture was ingeniously designed of bats and polo-sticks and golf-clubs. Athletic groups of the early ’nineties and a painting of a prize ram hung on the walls.
“It’s terribly common,” said Margot, “but it rather impresses the young ladies, which is a good thing. Some of them tend to be rather mannery if they aren’t kept in order.”
Paul sat in the corner—on a chair made in the shape of an inflated Channel swimmer—enraptured at her business ability. All her vagueness had left her; she sat upright at the table, which was covered with Balmoral tartan, her pen poised over an inkpot, which was set in a stuffed grouse, the very embodiment of the Feminist movement. One by one the girls were shown in.
“Name?” said Margot.
“Pompilia de la Conradine.”
Margot wrote it down.
“Real name?”
“Bessy Brown.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Real age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Experience?”
“I was at Mrs. Rosenbaum’s, in Jermyn Street, for two years, mum.”
“Well, Bessy, I’ll see what I can do for you. Why did you leave Mrs. Rosenbaum’s?”
“She said the gentlemen liked a change.”
“I’ll just ask her.” Margot took up the telephone, which was held by a boxing glove. “Is that Mrs. Rosenbaum? This is Latin-American Entertainments, Ltd., speaking. Can you tell me about Miss de la Conradine? … Oh, that was the reason she left you? Thank you so much! I rather thought that might be it.” She rang off. “Sorry, Bessy; nothing for you just at present.”
She pressed the bell, which was in the eye of a salmon trout, and another young lady was shown in.
“Name?”
“Jane Grimes.”
“Who sent you to me?”
“The gentleman at Cardiff. He gave me this to give you.” She produced a crumpled envelope and handed it across the table. Margot read the note. “Yes, I see. So you’re new to the business, Jane?”
“Like a babe unborn, mum.”
“But you married?”
“Yes, mum, but it was in the war, and he was very drunk.”
“Where’s your husband?”
“Dead, so they do say.”
“That’s excellent, Jane. You’re just the sort we want. How soon can you sail?”
“How soon would you be wanting me to?”
“Well, there’s a vacancy in Rio I’m filling at the end of the week. I’m sending out two very nice girls. Would you like to be going with them?”
“Yes, mum, very pleased, I’m sure.”
“D’you want any money in advance?”
“Well, I could do with a bit to send my dad if you could spare it.”
Margot took some notes from a drawer, counted them, and made out the receipt.
“Sign this, will you? I’ve got your address. I’ll send you your tickets in a day or so. How are you off for clothes?”
“Well, I’ve
