Nothing Venture by Patricia Wentworth

facts.”
    â€œUndoubtedly.”
    â€œWell?”
    The smoke went up between them.
    â€œMy dear Rosamund, as you say—those are the facts.”
    She turned her head for a moment, sent a smile across the room to Lady Tetterley, and, still smiling, returned to Jervis.
    â€œI’m afraid I wasn’t listening. Mabel Tetterley caught my eye. Now—about this money. You will of course carry out Uncle Ambrose’s wishes.”
    â€œAs?” said Jervis.
    â€œWell, I can’t live on five hundred a year,” said Rosamund.
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve—miscalculated. There was never any question of five hundred. The original figure was three. Page will tell you that.”
    Rosamund’s eyebrows rose slightly.
    â€œThat is merely ridiculous,” she said.
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
    â€œI can’t live on three hundred.”
    Jervis’ eyes hardened.
    â€œI’m afraid we’re talking at cross purposes. My grandfather didn’t leave you anything at all except a sum down for your trousseau, so neither five hundred nor three hundred a year are in question.”
    She lifted her cigarette again. The ash broke and fell, powdering the gold of her dress. She was silent for a moment, inhaling the smoke. In the silence thoughts moved between them—violent, resentful, dominant, resisting. With half closed eyes Rosamund continued to smoke. Whatever happened, he should speak next. If it was a battle between them, she knew where her advantage lay. She sat entrenched in silence. In the end it was he who broke it.
    â€œI don’t think there’s anything to be gained by this discussion. You played me the dirtiest trick I’ve ever heard of—and now you want your legacy.”
    â€œAnd a bit over,” said Miss Carew, her blue eyes veiled.
    â€œI’m afraid you won’t get it. You can have the three hundred a year, but I won’t discuss the matter with you. You must see Page.”
    She held the cigarette a little away and opened her eyes upon him.
    â€œMy dear Jervis, what do you expect me to do? One doesn’t live on three hundred a year!”
    â€œOne might work,” he suggested.
    Rosamund’s riposte was swift.
    â€œI believe Mr Page has a vacancy for a typist. Shall I apply for it?” She smiled her exquisite smile, then leaned towards him. “I’m not clever enough, I’m afraid. What’s the good of quarrelling? Make it five hundred, and let’s be friends. Family quarrels are so exhausting, and there’s a heat-wave coming.” She paused for an answer, and got none. “Come—five hundred—and I’ll owe my dressmaker the rest.”
    Jervis rose to his feet and offered her his arm.
    â€œNothing doing, I’m afraid. Shall we dance?”
    Ferdinand Fazackerley had taken Nan by way of a long corridor into one of those immense rooms with gilt mirrors and brocaded furniture which are, mercifully, only to be met with in hotels of the more expensive sort. They sat down in a window-seat framed with rose-coloured satin curtains looped with gold. Their feet rested upon a carpet an inch thick, also rose-coloured.
    â€œWell!” said Mr Fazackerley, “If we aren’t grand! Now last time I had the pleasure of a conversation with you—”
    Nan coloured a little, but her dimple showed.
    â€œIs that my cue? What do I say?”
    â€œYou say, ‘ Last time?’”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œI should say you do. And I—”
    â€œYes, you?”
    â€œI come in with, ‘Last time we weren’t as grand as this.’”
    Nan caught the corner of her lip between her teeth.
    â€œHave we met before, Mr Fazackerley?”
    â€œOh yes, Mrs Weare.”
    â€œHave we? Are you sure?”
    â€œOh, quite sure. I’ve been quite sure since twenty minutes past four this afternoon.”
    Nan caught her eyes away from his.