think I’ll stroll around
a while and go back by train.’
2
In stating that he liked
the looks of Valley Fields Mr Trout had spoken nothing but the truth. He liked
its tree-studded roads, its neat lawns and above all the flowers that bordered
those lawns. It is estimated that more seeds are planted annually, more patent
fertilisers bought and more greenfly rendered eligible for the obituary column
in Valley Fields than in any other London suburb, and the floral display there
in the summer months is always remarkable.
But
when he gave him to understand that he merely proposed to stroll around, taking
in the many charms of this sylvan spot, he deceived Joe Pickering. It was his
intention, when he found himself alone, to proceed to The Laurels and ask to
see Sally. The members of Bachelors Anonymous always liked to know that a case
could be filed away as closed, and he wished to ascertain whether her avoidance
of Joe was due to a temporary tiff which could be adjusted by a couple of
kisses and the gift on the part of the latter of a box of chocolates or whether
she had cast him off for ever. He was, moreover, actuated by simple
inquisitiveness. As nosey a Parker as ever walked down Hollywood Boulevard, he
wanted to see what the girl who had made such a deep impression on Joe looked
like.
The
moment the cab was out of sight, accordingly, he trotted to the front door and
rang the bell.
It has
been well said that the hour can always be relied on to produce the man. It now
produced the woman. Miss Priestley appeared, fresh from her triumph over Joe,
and stood eyeing him with the cold intentness with which Jack Dempsey used to
eye opponents across the ring. This was her first opportunity of seeing Mr
Trout steadily and seeing him whole, but already she had decided that she did
not feel drawn to him.
Mr
Trout, unaware that suavity was going to get him nowhere, was at his suavest.
Smiling a courtly smile which went through Miss Priestley like a dagger, he
said:
‘Good
afternoon, madam.’
To this
Miss Priestley made no reply.
‘Could
I speak to the young lady who arrived here just now?’
He
could not have asked a more unfortunate question. For a moment, until he
spoke, the châtelaine of The Laurels had supposed him to be another of the
pests from one of those consumer research organisations which were always
sending representatives to ask her what soap powder she used and what she
spent on her weekly budget, but this brazen query revealed him as something far
worse—a libertine to wit and, because older, worse than the first one.
‘No you
couldn’t,’ she said crisply. ‘And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. At your
age. Old enough to be her father.’
Mr
Trout’s courtly smile vanished as if it had been rubbed off by a squeegee.
‘You
wrong me, madam,’ he hastened to say. ‘I merely wish to—’
‘Well,
you aren’t going to.’
‘But,
madam—’
‘Get
thou behind me, Satan.’
Many
men would have felt at this point that the talks had reached a deadlock and
that it would be impossible to find a formula agreeable to both parties, but Mr
Trout was made of sterner stuff. His years of experience had taught him that
all men— and this of course included women—have their price. A pound note, he
estimated, would be Miss Priestley’s. He felt for his wallet, produced one and
pressed it into her hand.
‘Perhaps
this will induce you to lend a kindlier ear to my request,’ he said archly, in
fact almost roguishly, smiling another of those courtly smiles which, as we
have seen, affected her so unpleasantly.
Miss
Priestley looked dumbly at the revolting object. When a woman of high
principles has nursed a girl through the storms and stresses of childhood and
the moment the latter is grown up is asked to sell her for gold, her emotions
are not easy to describe. Foremost among those of Sally’s ex-Nanny was a wild
regret that she had come out without her umbrella, for it would have
a while and go back by train.’
2
In stating that he liked
the looks of Valley Fields Mr Trout had spoken nothing but the truth. He liked
its tree-studded roads, its neat lawns and above all the flowers that bordered
those lawns. It is estimated that more seeds are planted annually, more patent
fertilisers bought and more greenfly rendered eligible for the obituary column
in Valley Fields than in any other London suburb, and the floral display there
in the summer months is always remarkable.
But
when he gave him to understand that he merely proposed to stroll around, taking
in the many charms of this sylvan spot, he deceived Joe Pickering. It was his
intention, when he found himself alone, to proceed to The Laurels and ask to
see Sally. The members of Bachelors Anonymous always liked to know that a case
could be filed away as closed, and he wished to ascertain whether her avoidance
of Joe was due to a temporary tiff which could be adjusted by a couple of
kisses and the gift on the part of the latter of a box of chocolates or whether
she had cast him off for ever. He was, moreover, actuated by simple
inquisitiveness. As nosey a Parker as ever walked down Hollywood Boulevard, he
wanted to see what the girl who had made such a deep impression on Joe looked
like.
The
moment the cab was out of sight, accordingly, he trotted to the front door and
rang the bell.
It has
been well said that the hour can always be relied on to produce the man. It now
produced the woman. Miss Priestley appeared, fresh from her triumph over Joe,
and stood eyeing him with the cold intentness with which Jack Dempsey used to
eye opponents across the ring. This was her first opportunity of seeing Mr
Trout steadily and seeing him whole, but already she had decided that she did
not feel drawn to him.
Mr
Trout, unaware that suavity was going to get him nowhere, was at his suavest.
Smiling a courtly smile which went through Miss Priestley like a dagger, he
said:
‘Good
afternoon, madam.’
To this
Miss Priestley made no reply.
‘Could
I speak to the young lady who arrived here just now?’
He
could not have asked a more unfortunate question. For a moment, until he
spoke, the châtelaine of The Laurels had supposed him to be another of the
pests from one of those consumer research organisations which were always
sending representatives to ask her what soap powder she used and what she
spent on her weekly budget, but this brazen query revealed him as something far
worse—a libertine to wit and, because older, worse than the first one.
‘No you
couldn’t,’ she said crisply. ‘And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. At your
age. Old enough to be her father.’
Mr
Trout’s courtly smile vanished as if it had been rubbed off by a squeegee.
‘You
wrong me, madam,’ he hastened to say. ‘I merely wish to—’
‘Well,
you aren’t going to.’
‘But,
madam—’
‘Get
thou behind me, Satan.’
Many
men would have felt at this point that the talks had reached a deadlock and
that it would be impossible to find a formula agreeable to both parties, but Mr
Trout was made of sterner stuff. His years of experience had taught him that
all men— and this of course included women—have their price. A pound note, he
estimated, would be Miss Priestley’s. He felt for his wallet, produced one and
pressed it into her hand.
‘Perhaps
this will induce you to lend a kindlier ear to my request,’ he said archly, in
fact almost roguishly, smiling another of those courtly smiles which, as we
have seen, affected her so unpleasantly.
Miss
Priestley looked dumbly at the revolting object. When a woman of high
principles has nursed a girl through the storms and stresses of childhood and
the moment the latter is grown up is asked to sell her for gold, her emotions
are not easy to describe. Foremost among those of Sally’s ex-Nanny was a wild
regret that she had come out without her umbrella, for it would have
Similar Books
