“It’s rather awful,” said Jill, “to think of Lady Underhill racing all the way from Mentone to Paris and from Paris to Calais and from Calais to Dover and from Dover to London simply to inspect me. You can’t wonder I’m nervous, Freddie.”
The eye-glass dropped from Freddie’s eye.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, astonished.
“Of course I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be in my place?”
“Well, I should never have thought it.”
“Why do you suppose I’ve been talking such a lot? Why do you imagine I snapped your poor, innocent head off just now? I’m terrified inside, terrified!”
“You don’t look it, by Jove!”
“No, I’m trying to be a little warrior. That’s what Uncle Chris always used to call me. It started the day when he took me to have a tooth out, when I was ten. ‘Be a little warrior, Jill!’ he kept saying—’Be a little warrior!’ And I was.” She looked at the clock. “But I shan’t be if they don’t get here soon. The suspense is awful.” She strummed the keys. “Suppose she doesn’t like me, Freddie! You see how you’ve scared me.”
“I didn’t say she wouldn’t. I only said you’d got to watch out a bit.”
“Something tells me she won’t. My nerve is oozing out of me.” Jill shook her head impatiently. “It’s all so vulgar! I thought this sort of thing only happened in the comic papers and in music-hall songs. Why, it’s just like that song somebody used to sing.” She laughed. “Do you remember? I don’t know how the verse went, but —
John took me round to see his mother, his mother, his mother! And when he’d introduced us to each other, She sized up everything that I had on. She put me through a cross-examination: I fairly boiled with aggravation: Then she shook her head, Looked at me and said: ‘Poor John! Poor John!’
“Chorus, Freddie! Let’s cheer ourselves up! We need it!”
‘John took me round to see his mother — !
“His mo-o-o-other!” croaked Freddie. Curiously enough, this ballad was one of Freddie’s favorites. He had rendered it with a good deal of success on three separate occasions at village entertainments down in Worcestershire, and he rather flattered himself that he could get about as much out of it as the next man. He proceeded to abet Jill heartily with gruff sounds which he was under the impression constituted what is known in musical circles as “singing seconds.”
“His mo-o-o-other!” he growled with frightful scorn.
“And when she’d introduced us to each other —”
“O-o-o-other!”
“She sized up everything that I had on!”
“Pom-pom-pom!”
“She put me through a cross-examination —”
Jill had thrown her head back, and was singing jubilantly at the top of her voice. The appositeness of the song had cheered her up. It seemed somehow to make her forebodings rather ridiculous, to reduce them to absurdity, to turn into farce the gathering tragedy which had been weighing upon her nerves.
“Then she shook her head, Looked at me and said: ‘Poor John!’—“
“Jill,” said a voice at the door. “I want you to meet my mother!”
“Poo-oo-oor John!” bleated the hapless Freddie, unable to check himself.
“Dinner,” said Parker the valet, appearing at the door and breaking a silence that seemed to fill the room like a tangible presence, “is served!”
CHAPTER TWO
1.
The front-door closed softly behind the theatre-party. Dinner was over, and Parker had just been assisting the expedition out of the place. Sensitive to atmosphere, he had found his share in the dinner a little trying. It had been a strained meal, and what he liked was a clatter of conversation and everybody having a good time and enjoying themselves.
“Ellen!” called Parker, as he proceeded down the passage to the empty dining-room. “Ellen!”
Mrs Parker appeared out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. Her work for the evening, like her husband’s, was over. Presently what is technically called a “useful girl” would come in to wash the dishes, leaving the evening free for social intercourse. Mrs Parker had done well by her patrons that night, and now she wanted a quiet chat with Parker over a glass of Freddie Rooke’s port.