“Go away, hog’s rump,” said Adam, in Cockney, adding, in softer tones, “Are you disappointed?”
“Well, no, but it’s rather disconcerting getting engaged to someone with dark hair and finding it’s fair.”
“Anyway, we aren’t engaged any more, are we—or are we?”
“I’m not sure that we’re not. How much money have you, Adam?”
“Literally, none, my dear. Poor Agatha had to pay for dinner as it was, and God knows what I’m going to do about Lottie Crump’s bill.”
“Of course, you know—Adam, don’t fall asleep—there’s always papa. I believe he’s really much richer than he looks. He might give us some money until your books start paying.”
“You know, if I wrote a book a month I should be free of that contract in a year. … I hadn’t thought of that before. I don’t at all see why I shouldn’t do that, do you? … or do you?”
“Of course not, darling. I’ll tell you what. We’ll go down and see papa tomorrow, shall we?”
“Yes, that would be divine, darling.”
“Adam, don’t go to sleep.”
“Sorry, darling, what I meant was that that would be divine.”
And he went to sleep for a little, with his head in her lap.
“Pretty as a picture,” said Archie, in Cockney, passing with a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“Wake up, Adam,” said Nina, pulling out more hair. “It’s time to go.”
“That would be divine. … I say, have I been asleep?”
“Yes, for hours and hours. You looked rather sweet.”
“And you sat there. … I say, Nina, you are getting sentimental. … Where are we going?”
There were about a dozen people left at the party; that hard kernel of gaiety that never breaks. It was about three o’clock.
“Let’s go to Lottie Crump’s and have a drink,” said Adam.
So they all got into two taxicabs and drove across Berkeley Square to Dover Street. But at Shepheard’s the night porter said that Mrs. Crump had just gone to bed. He thought that Judge Skimp was still up with some friends; would they like to join them? They went up to Judge Skimp’s suite, but there had been a disaster there with a chandelier that one of his young ladies had tried to swing on. They were bathing her forehead with champagne; two of them were asleep.
So Adam’s party went out again, into the rain.
“Of course, there’s always the Ritz,” said Archie. “I believe the night porter can usually get one a drink.” But he said it in the sort of voice that made all the others say, no, the Ritz was too, too boring at that time of night.
They went to Agatha Runcible’s house, which was quite near, but she found that she’d lost her latchkey, so that was no good. Soon someone would say those fatal words, “Well, I think it’s time for me to go to bed. Can I give anyone a lift to Knightsbridge?” and the party would be over.
But instead a little breathless voice said, “Why don’t you come to my house?”
It was Miss Brown.
So they all got into taxicabs again and drove rather a long way to Miss Brown’s house. She turned on the lights in a sombre dining-room and gave them glasses of whisky and soda. (She turned out to be rather a good hostess, though overzealous.) Then Miles said he wanted something to eat, so they all went downstairs into a huge kitchen lined with every shape of pot and pan and found some eggs and some bacon and Miss Brown cooked them. Then they had some more whisky upstairs and Adam fell asleep again. Presently Vanburgh said, “D’you mind if I use the telephone? I must just send the rest of my story to the paper.” Miss Brown took him to a study that looked almost like an office, and he dictated the rest of his column, and then he came back and had some more whisky.
It was a lovely evening for Miss Brown. Flushed with successful hospitality, she trotted from guest to guest, offering here a box of matches, there a cigar, there a fruit from the enormous gilt dishes on the sideboard. To think that all these brilliant people, whom she had heard so much about, with what envy, from Miss Mouse, should be here in papa’s dining-room, calling her “my dear” and “darling.” And when at last they said they really had to go, Miss Runcible said, “Well, I can’t go, because I’ve lost my latchkey. D’you mind awfully if I sleep here?”
Miss Brown, her heart in her mouth, but in the most natural way possible, said, “Of course not, Agatha darling, that would be divine.”
And then Miss Runcible said, “How too divine of you, darling.”
Rapture!
At half-past nine the next morning the Brown family came down to breakfast in the dining-room.
There were four quiet girls (of whom the Miss Brown who had given the party was the youngest), their brother worked in a motor shop and had had to get off early. They were seated at the table when their mama came down.
“Now, children,” she said, “do try to remember to talk to your father at breakfast. He was quite hurt yesterday. He feels out of things. It’s so easy to bring him into the conversation if you take a little trouble, and he does so enjoy hearing about everything.”
“Yes, Mama,” they said. “We do try, you know.”
“And what was the Bicesters’ dance like, Jane?” she said, pouring out some coffee. “Did you have a good time?”
“It was just too divine,” said the youngest Miss Brown.
“It was what, Jane?”
“I mean it was lovely, Mama.”
“So I should think. You girls are very lucky nowadays. There were not nearly so many dances when I was your age. Perhaps two a week in the season, you know, but none before Christmas ever.”
“Mama.”
“Yes, Jane.”
“Mama. I asked a girl to stay the night.”
“Yes, dear. When? We’re rather full up, you know.”
“Last night, Mama.”
“What an extraordinary thing to do. Did she accept?”
“Yes, she’s here now.”
“Well. … Ambrose, will you tell Mrs. Sparrow to put on another
