Except at meals I hadn’t seen anything of Florence till now, she, so to speak, having taken the high road while I took the low road. What I mean to say is that she was always in Market Snodsbury, bustling about on behalf of the Conservative candidate to whom she was betrothed, while I, after that nerve-racking encounter with the widow of the late McCorkadale, had given up canvassing in favour of curling up with a good book. I had apologized to Ginger for this — is pusillanimity the word? ‘ and he had taken it extraordinarily well, telling me it was perfectly all right and he wished he could do the same.
She was looking as beautiful as ever, if not more so, and at least ninety-six per cent of the members of the Drones Club would have asked nothing better than to be closeted with her like this. I, however, would willingly have avoided the tete-a-tete, for my trained senses told me that she was in one of her tempers, and when this happens the instinct of all but the hardiest is to climb a tree and pull it up after them. The overbearing dishpotness to which I alluded earlier and which is so marked a feature of her make-up was plainly to the fore. She said, speaking abruptly: ‘What are you doing in here on a lovely day like this, Bertie?’
I explained that I had been in conference with Aunt Dahlia, and she riposted that the conference was presumably over by now, Aunt D being conspicuous by her absence, so why wasn’t I out getting fresh air and sunshine.
‘You’re much too fond of frowsting indoors. That’s why you have that sallow look.
‘ ‘I didn’t know I had a sallow look.’
‘Of course you have a sallow look. What else did you expect? You look like the underside of a dead fish.’
My worst fears seemed to be confirmed. I had anticipated that she would work off her choler on the first innocent bystander she met, and it was just my luck that this happened to be me. With bowed head I prepared to face the storm, and then to my surprise she changed the subject.
‘I’m looking for Harold,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Have you seen him? ‘
‘I don’t think I know him.’
‘Don’t be a fool. Harold Winship.’
‘Oh, Ginger,’ I said, enlightened. ‘No, he hasn’t swum into my ken. What do you want to see him about? Something important?’
‘It is important to me, and it ought to be to him. Unless he takes himself in hand, he is going to lose this election.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘His behaviour at lunch today.’
‘Oh, did he take you to lunch? Where did you go? I had mine at a pub, and the garbage there had to be chewed to be believed. But perhaps you went to a decent hotel? ‘
‘It was the Chamber of Commerce luncheon at the Town Hall. A vitally important occasion, and he made the feeblest speech I have ever heard. A child with water on the brain could have done better. Even you could have done better.’
Well, I suppose placing me on a level of efficiency with a water-on-the-brained child was quite a stately compliment coming from Florence, so I didn’t go further into the matter, and she carried on, puffs of flame emerging from both nostrils.
‘Er, er, er ! ‘
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He kept saying Er. Er, er, er. I could have thrown a coffee spoon at him.’
Here, of course, was my chance to work in the old gag about to err being human, but it didn’t seem to me the moment. Instead, I said:
‘He was probably nervous.’
‘That was his excuse. I told him he had no right to be nervous.’
‘Then you’ve seen him? ‘
‘I saw him.’
‘After the lunch?’
‘Immediately after the lunch.’
‘But you want to see him again?’
‘I do.’
‘I’ll go and look for him, shall I?’
‘Yes, and tell him to meet me in Mr. Travers’s study. We shall not be interrupted there.’
‘He’s probably sitting in the summerhouse by the lake.’