somebody—”
“Wasn’t it Richard?” Miss Withers interposed.
“Right you are. Anyway, he’s hopping around in his new cage in grand style, though he won’t sing.”
Candida suggested that robins or other wild birds rarely were songsters in captivity, and the conversation languished. The three of them received freshly filled glasses from the obliging barman and sank into tremendous leather chairs around a richly carved table with a somewhat unstable top.
“I feel very wicked and ribald,” observed Miss Withers, taking a deep pull at her orangeade. “So this is London!”
The girl beside her shared a smiling look with Leslie Reverson. If the two of them had known the mind of the eccentric spinster they might not have smiled so easily.
“Oh, there’s that Todd fellow,” said Leslie after a moment. Andy Todd was coming down the hall. He paused in the doorway of the American Bar, half nodded at the three of them, and rumbled with his cigarette case.
“Why don’t you ask him to join us?” suggested Miss Withers mischievously. Reverson brightened, being slightly warm with two gin-and-its.
“Of course,” he said quickly, “if Miss Noring doesn’t mind.”
“Call me Candy,” said Miss Noring evenly. “Why should I mind? I’d like it.”
So it was that a rather ill-at-ease Andy Todd made a fourth in the party, knocking over the table and Miss Withers’ orangeade as he sat down. He ordered a rye and sat brooding over it.
“Staying in London long?” asked Candida brightly.
Todd for the first time noticed that there had been something of a transformation in one who had been on shipboard just another girl. After all, Candida Noring’s features were more even than Rosemary’s, though a bit less piquant. And this was a becoming suit that she wore.
“I’m afraid a couple of days—I hope,” he garbled. “I’m supposed to be up at Oxford now, but the police told me not to leave London until after the inquest. Sorry, I didn’t mean to mention—” Candida’s pale face became a little paler.
“Never mind, we’re all in the same boat,” Miss Withers comforted the Rhodes scholar.
The barman collected the glasses somewhat ostentatiously, and Reverson overruled Todd and ordered another round.
“As long as these are going on my bill,” said a pleasant, brisk voice behind him, “suppose that you count me in?”
The Honorable Emily was herself again, after an hour in the tub. She only needed one thing to make her perfectly contented, and that was due to happen soon. She polished her eyeglass vigorously.
Outside the twilight deepened, and the roar of traffic on Trafalgar Square increased. Miss Withers realized how typically American she was in seeing London through the bottom of a cocktail glass.
The Honorable Emily, amiably conscious that she was in the presence of three strangers to the city that she considered almost her own property, became at once a combined guidebook and char-a-banc lecturer. “You simply must see the changing of the guard tomorrow morning,” she said. “And tonight—you ought to have your first view of London night life at the right place. Not a night club or a variety show.”
Leslie Reverson nodded. “Dinner at Lyons Corner House and an educational cinema,” he whispered to Candida. He had had bitter experience of his aunt’s ideas of a gay London evening.
“After all, there’s no place like London,” the Honorable Emily continued.
“Then why do you always insist on dragging me back to Cornwall?” demanded Leslie. “If it wasn’t for this bloody inquest…”
Miss Withers sat watching them, filled with a premonition that fate had brought them all together with some definite purpose in view. She saw Andy Todd, ill at ease and trying to cover it with too many ryes. She saw Leslie Reverson, for the first time making a definite protest at his aunt’s calm management of his life, and waxing bolder and bolder under the calm gaze of Candida. It was the
“Wasn’t it Richard?” Miss Withers interposed.
“Right you are. Anyway, he’s hopping around in his new cage in grand style, though he won’t sing.”
Candida suggested that robins or other wild birds rarely were songsters in captivity, and the conversation languished. The three of them received freshly filled glasses from the obliging barman and sank into tremendous leather chairs around a richly carved table with a somewhat unstable top.
“I feel very wicked and ribald,” observed Miss Withers, taking a deep pull at her orangeade. “So this is London!”
The girl beside her shared a smiling look with Leslie Reverson. If the two of them had known the mind of the eccentric spinster they might not have smiled so easily.
“Oh, there’s that Todd fellow,” said Leslie after a moment. Andy Todd was coming down the hall. He paused in the doorway of the American Bar, half nodded at the three of them, and rumbled with his cigarette case.
“Why don’t you ask him to join us?” suggested Miss Withers mischievously. Reverson brightened, being slightly warm with two gin-and-its.
“Of course,” he said quickly, “if Miss Noring doesn’t mind.”
“Call me Candy,” said Miss Noring evenly. “Why should I mind? I’d like it.”
So it was that a rather ill-at-ease Andy Todd made a fourth in the party, knocking over the table and Miss Withers’ orangeade as he sat down. He ordered a rye and sat brooding over it.
“Staying in London long?” asked Candida brightly.
Todd for the first time noticed that there had been something of a transformation in one who had been on shipboard just another girl. After all, Candida Noring’s features were more even than Rosemary’s, though a bit less piquant. And this was a becoming suit that she wore.
“I’m afraid a couple of days—I hope,” he garbled. “I’m supposed to be up at Oxford now, but the police told me not to leave London until after the inquest. Sorry, I didn’t mean to mention—” Candida’s pale face became a little paler.
“Never mind, we’re all in the same boat,” Miss Withers comforted the Rhodes scholar.
The barman collected the glasses somewhat ostentatiously, and Reverson overruled Todd and ordered another round.
“As long as these are going on my bill,” said a pleasant, brisk voice behind him, “suppose that you count me in?”
The Honorable Emily was herself again, after an hour in the tub. She only needed one thing to make her perfectly contented, and that was due to happen soon. She polished her eyeglass vigorously.
Outside the twilight deepened, and the roar of traffic on Trafalgar Square increased. Miss Withers realized how typically American she was in seeing London through the bottom of a cocktail glass.
The Honorable Emily, amiably conscious that she was in the presence of three strangers to the city that she considered almost her own property, became at once a combined guidebook and char-a-banc lecturer. “You simply must see the changing of the guard tomorrow morning,” she said. “And tonight—you ought to have your first view of London night life at the right place. Not a night club or a variety show.”
Leslie Reverson nodded. “Dinner at Lyons Corner House and an educational cinema,” he whispered to Candida. He had had bitter experience of his aunt’s ideas of a gay London evening.
“After all, there’s no place like London,” the Honorable Emily continued.
“Then why do you always insist on dragging me back to Cornwall?” demanded Leslie. “If it wasn’t for this bloody inquest…”
Miss Withers sat watching them, filled with a premonition that fate had brought them all together with some definite purpose in view. She saw Andy Todd, ill at ease and trying to cover it with too many ryes. She saw Leslie Reverson, for the first time making a definite protest at his aunt’s calm management of his life, and waxing bolder and bolder under the calm gaze of Candida. It was the
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