well, Mister Baines?”
“G—gratified! Hon—honored!” gabbled Mr. Baines, running a finger along the inside of his celluloid collar.
“Good! That’s settled,” said Lady Blenkinsop airily. “We will go to your usual luncheon place. It will be divine to see the City gentlemen at play.”
She swept regally from the office, not looking around to see if they were following her. Polly and Mr. Baines trotted breathlessly after her, pulling on their coats.
Mr. Baines was dimly aware of the astonished admiration of his friends at Spielman’s. The menu swam before his eyes and he automatically ordered the same as Lady Blenkinsop, as did Polly.
Polly desperately wondered why Lady Blenkinsop had called on her but she was never to know. Lady Blenkinsop turned the full battery of her attention on the bemused office manager and bombarded him with questions. Since these were all about his work and since Lady Blenkinsop had insisted on ordering wine with the meal, Mr. Baines slowly began to relax. The aura of admiration emanating from his friends acted upon his senses more than the wine. He felt himself sparkling as he had never done before. Hoary office jokes were treated by Lady Blenkinsop as the height of wit and her tinkling laughter rang out over the hum of conversation in the chophouse.
Polly began to glance nervously at the watch pinned to her bosom. Lady Blenkinsop was talking of the enchantment of Venice and the glory of Paris and Mr. Baines was sitting drinking it all in, his middle-aged features the happy ghost of the young and carefree man he used to be. At last Polly found a break in their conversation and reminded them of the time. Both looked surprised to see she was still there.
“Run along, my dear,” said Lady Blenkinsop. “I shall just sit here a little longer and talk to dear Mister Baines. I am sure Westerman’s can spare him for a little longer.”
Mr. Baines banished the thought of the piles of work waiting for him as Lady Blenkinsop said good-bye to Polly. “Do telephone me as soon as ever you can,” said Lady Blenkinsop, “and we’ll have such
long
chats.”
They had resumed their conversation before Polly had left the table.
The long City afternoon wore on and still Mr. Albert Baines did not return, but Joe Noakes, one of the messengers, told Amy who told Bob Friend who told Polly, that Mr. Baines had been seen departing in Lady Blenkinsop’s carriage and that, as the staid office manager had helped her ladyship into her carriage, he had
squeezed her hand
. Work at Westerman’s had ceased while this delicious piece of gossip was mulled over. Why didn’t Polly join them?
But the haughty Miss Marsh merely replied that she
never
gossiped about her
friends
and the much subdued Mr. Friend took that flea in his ear back to the more congenial company of Amy Feathers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The office party was to be held two days before Christmas. On her latest visit to Stone Lane, Polly had found to her embarrassment that she was meant to spend Christmas at home. Now Polly fully expected to be spending Christmas with the Duke and Duchess of Westerman and was at long last faced with the necessity of telling Mrs. Marsh of her hopes and ambitions.
Mrs. Marsh had held out one pudgy, work-reddened hand for the precious letter. She popped a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose and sat down heavily at the kitchen table to give the matter her full attention. Joyce and baby Alf were asleep, Alf senior was in the pub, and Gran had gone with him to imbibe her weekly glass of port and lemon.
Her lips moving slightly, Mrs. Marsh carefully read from beginning to end and then dropped the letter on the table and wiped her hands carefully on her apron.
“You’re a fool, Pol,” she said heavily. “Yerse. A silly, little, snobby fool. That there Lord Peter ain’t got marriage in mind. ’E wants up your skirts, my girl.”
Polly blushed at her mother’s coarseness and became more determined
“G—gratified! Hon—honored!” gabbled Mr. Baines, running a finger along the inside of his celluloid collar.
“Good! That’s settled,” said Lady Blenkinsop airily. “We will go to your usual luncheon place. It will be divine to see the City gentlemen at play.”
She swept regally from the office, not looking around to see if they were following her. Polly and Mr. Baines trotted breathlessly after her, pulling on their coats.
Mr. Baines was dimly aware of the astonished admiration of his friends at Spielman’s. The menu swam before his eyes and he automatically ordered the same as Lady Blenkinsop, as did Polly.
Polly desperately wondered why Lady Blenkinsop had called on her but she was never to know. Lady Blenkinsop turned the full battery of her attention on the bemused office manager and bombarded him with questions. Since these were all about his work and since Lady Blenkinsop had insisted on ordering wine with the meal, Mr. Baines slowly began to relax. The aura of admiration emanating from his friends acted upon his senses more than the wine. He felt himself sparkling as he had never done before. Hoary office jokes were treated by Lady Blenkinsop as the height of wit and her tinkling laughter rang out over the hum of conversation in the chophouse.
Polly began to glance nervously at the watch pinned to her bosom. Lady Blenkinsop was talking of the enchantment of Venice and the glory of Paris and Mr. Baines was sitting drinking it all in, his middle-aged features the happy ghost of the young and carefree man he used to be. At last Polly found a break in their conversation and reminded them of the time. Both looked surprised to see she was still there.
“Run along, my dear,” said Lady Blenkinsop. “I shall just sit here a little longer and talk to dear Mister Baines. I am sure Westerman’s can spare him for a little longer.”
Mr. Baines banished the thought of the piles of work waiting for him as Lady Blenkinsop said good-bye to Polly. “Do telephone me as soon as ever you can,” said Lady Blenkinsop, “and we’ll have such
long
chats.”
They had resumed their conversation before Polly had left the table.
The long City afternoon wore on and still Mr. Albert Baines did not return, but Joe Noakes, one of the messengers, told Amy who told Bob Friend who told Polly, that Mr. Baines had been seen departing in Lady Blenkinsop’s carriage and that, as the staid office manager had helped her ladyship into her carriage, he had
squeezed her hand
. Work at Westerman’s had ceased while this delicious piece of gossip was mulled over. Why didn’t Polly join them?
But the haughty Miss Marsh merely replied that she
never
gossiped about her
friends
and the much subdued Mr. Friend took that flea in his ear back to the more congenial company of Amy Feathers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The office party was to be held two days before Christmas. On her latest visit to Stone Lane, Polly had found to her embarrassment that she was meant to spend Christmas at home. Now Polly fully expected to be spending Christmas with the Duke and Duchess of Westerman and was at long last faced with the necessity of telling Mrs. Marsh of her hopes and ambitions.
Mrs. Marsh had held out one pudgy, work-reddened hand for the precious letter. She popped a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose and sat down heavily at the kitchen table to give the matter her full attention. Joyce and baby Alf were asleep, Alf senior was in the pub, and Gran had gone with him to imbibe her weekly glass of port and lemon.
Her lips moving slightly, Mrs. Marsh carefully read from beginning to end and then dropped the letter on the table and wiped her hands carefully on her apron.
“You’re a fool, Pol,” she said heavily. “Yerse. A silly, little, snobby fool. That there Lord Peter ain’t got marriage in mind. ’E wants up your skirts, my girl.”
Polly blushed at her mother’s coarseness and became more determined
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