“—in the presence of her mother, you wrong the purest and sweetest woman that ever lived, and insult your friend,” interrupted Peter, snatching the words from his mouth and rattling them to a glib conclusion. “What a perfect Victorian you are, Charles. I should like to keep you in a glass case. Of course you haven’t said a word. What I want to know is, why?”
Parker stared at him.
“For the last five years or so,” said Wimsey, “you have been looking like a demented sheep at my sister, and starting like a rabbit whenever her name is mentioned. What do you mean by it? It is not ornamental. It is not exhilarating. You unnerve the poor girl. You give me a poor idea of your guts, if you will pardon the expression. A man doesn’t like to see a man go all wobbly about his sister—at least, not with such a prolonged wobble. It’s unsightly. It’s irritating. Why not slap the manly thorax and say, ‘Peter my dear old mangel-wurzel, I have decided to dig myself into the old family trench and be a brother to you’? What’s stopping you? Is it Gerald? He’s an ass, I know, but he’s not a bad old stick, really. Is it Helen? She’s a bit of a wart, but you needn’t see much of her. Is it me? Because, if so, I’m thinking of becoming a hermit—there was a Peter the Hermit, wasn’t there?—So I shouldn’t be in your way. Cough up the difficulty, old thing, and we will have it removed in a plain van. Now, then!”
“Do you—are you asking me—?”
“I’m asking you your intentions, damn it!” said Wimsey, “and if that’s not Victorian enough, I don’t know what is. I quite understand your having given Mary time to recover from that unfortunate affair with Cathcart and the Goyles fellow, but, dash it all, my dear man, one can overdo the delicacy business. You can’t expect a girl to stand on and off forever, can you? Are you waiting for Leap Year, or what?”
“Look here, Peter, don’t be a damned fool. How can I ask your sister to marry me?”
“How you do it is your affair. You might say: ‘What about a spot of matrimony, old dear?’ That’s up-to-date, and plain and unmistakable. Or you could go down on one knee and say, ‘Will you honour me with your hand and heart?’ which is pretty and old-fashioned and has the merit of originality in these times. Or you could write, or wire, or telephone. But I leave that to your own individual fancy.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Oh, God! Shall I ever live down this disastrous reputation for tomfoolery? You’re making Mary damned unhappy, Charles, and I wish you’d marry her and have done with it.”
“Making her unhappy?” said Parker, almost in a shout, “me—her—unhappy?”
Wimsey tapped his forehead significantly.
“Wood—solid wood! But the last blow seems to have penetrated. Yes, you—her—unhappy—do you get it now?”
“Peter—if I really thought that—”
“Now don’t go off the deep end,” said Wimsey, “it’s wasted on me. Keep it for Mary. I’ve done my brotherly duty and there’s an end of it. Calm yourself. Return to your reports—”
“Oh, lord, yes,” said Parker. “Before we go any farther, I’ve got a report for you.”
“You have? Why didn’t you say so at first.”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
“Well, what is it?”
“We’ve found the packet.”
“What?”
“We’ve found the packet.”
“Actually found it?”
“Yes. One of the barmen—”
“Never mind the barmen. You’re sure it’s the right packet?”
“Oh, yes; we’ve identified it.”
“Get on. Have you analysed it?”
“Yes, we’ve analysed it.”
“Well, what is it?”
Parker looked at him with the eyes of one who breaks bad news, and said, reluctantly:
“Bicarbonate of soda.”
XVI
Mr. Crofts, excusably enough, said, “I told you so”; Sir Impey Biggs observed curtly, “Very unfortunate.”
To chronicle Lord Peter Wimsey’s daily life during the ensuing week would be neither kind nor edifying. An enforced inactivity will produce irritable symptoms in the best of men. Nor did the imbecile happiness of Chief Inspector Parker and Lady Mary Wimsey tend to soothe him, accompanied as it was by tedious demonstrations of affection for himself. Like the man in Max Beerbohm’s story, Wimsey “hated to be touching.” He was only moderately cheered by hearing from the industrious Freddy Arbuthnot that Mr. Norman Urquhart was found to be more or less deeply involved in the disasters of the Megatherium Trust.
Miss Kitty Climpson, on the other hand, was living in what she herself liked to call a “whirl of activity.” A letter, written the second day after her arrival in Windle, furnishes us with a wealth of particulars.
Hillside View,
Windle, Westmorland.
.
My dear Lord Peter,
I feel sure you will be anxious to hear, at the earliest possible moment how things are going, and though I have only been here one day, I really think I have not done so badly, all things considered!
My train got in quite late on Monday night, after a most dreary journey, with a lugubrious wait at Preston, though thanks to your kindness in insisting that I should travel First-class, I was not really at all tired! Nobody can realise what a great difference these extra comforts make, especially when one is getting on in years, and after the uncomfortable travelling which I had to endure in my days of poverty, I feel that I am living in almost sinful luxury! The carriage was well heated—indeed, too much so and I should have liked the window down, but that there was a very fat business man, muffled to the eyes in coats and woolly waistcoats who strongly objected to fresh air! Men are such hothouse plants nowadays, are they not, quite unlike my dear father, who would never permit a fire in the house before November the 1st, or after March 31st
