Beggar’s Choice by Patricia Wentworth Page A

you. I told him he wasn’t to.”
    â€œPerhaps that’s why he didn’t write,” said Car.
    They shook hands earnestly. Her hand was very small and soft. For the moment mischief was subdued. It was evidently, an occasion—and an occasion ought to be celebrated. With a horrid sick feeling Car remembered that he couldn’t ask her to celebrate it. Fay’s look came back. His hand felt cold as it let go of Corinna’s gray glove.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” said Corinna.
    â€œNothing.” Why on earth had he let her carry him off like this?
    â€œDidn’t I break it gently enough?”
    â€œYou broke it beautifully.”
    â€œThen come along.”
    â€œI——”
    â€œWhat is it? Don’t you like me for a cousin?” The gray eyes were still mischievous, but the mischief was very faintly clouded over—mist over sparkling water.
    Car felt himself getting hot.
    â€œIt isn’t that. I—I’m not dressed for a tea-party.”
    â€œCarthew Fairfax—if you don’t come and have tea with me, I shall burst out crying, right here. Did you think I was asking a suit of clothes to tea? Because if you did, you’ve got to think again. Now, have I got to cry?”
    Car’s embarrassment left him. Gray kittens have no conventions. They do not look at the seams of your coat or the bulges in your boots.
    Corinna produced a handkerchief four inches square and wrinkled her nose in a preparatory sniff.
    â€œThank you very much for inviting me,” said Car.

XII
    Half an hour later they were talking as if they had known each other always. Miss Lee was staying at the Luxe, and they had a tête-à-tête tea in her own sitting-room, with her own cushions making bright, delightful spots of color, and a large photograph of Poppa in the middle of the mantelpiece, and a small snapshot of Peter on either side of it.
    He had learned that Poppa was the head of the Lee-Mackintosh Corporation, and that he thought a heap of Peter. He thought Peter was a real fine boy, and he didn’t mind his being English—at least, not much. Car gathered that continuous pressure was being brought to bear upon Poppa to think even more highly of Peter. He also gathered that Poppa had perfectly effete ideas about daughters traveling alone, and that Corinna was therefore saddled with a chaperone in the shape of Cousin Abby Palliser. She seemed quite capable of managing her however. Cousin Abby, having a passion for historical monuments, could always be sent to see St. Paul’s, or Westminster Abbey, or the Houses of Parliament if Corinna wanted to get rid of her. This afternoon she was doing Westminster Abbey, and as she was an extremely conscientious sightseer, it would certainly take her several hours.
    â€œAnd now,” said Corinna—“ now I’m going to ask you questions.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œYou don’t mind?”
    â€œNot a bit.”
    She was sitting behind the tea-table with her elbow on her knee and her little round chin in her hand.
    â€œSure?” she said.
    Car wondered. He laughed and said,
    â€œWhat are you going to ask?”
    â€œWait and see.” She waited herself for a moment, and then said, “Peter’s told me a lot, and I’ve guessed some of the things he didn’t tell me. If I’ve guessed wrong, you can put me wise. You know, Peter thinks the world of you, but he’s considerably worried, because he doesn’t think you’re getting a fair show. Now if my grandmother was a Carthew, I suppose that lets me in so I can talk about the Carthews without offending you. And if that’s so, well, the first thing I want to ask is why your Uncle John Carthew didn’t rally round when things went wrong.”
    â€œHe helped my mother,” said Car.
    â€œBut not you.”
    â€œNo—not me.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know why he