“Tommy, you’re stony!”
“Not a bit of it,” declared Tommy unconvincingly. “Rolling in cash.”
“You always were a shocking liar,” said Tuppence severely, “though you did
once persuade Sister Greenbank that the doctor had ordered you beer as a tonic,
but forgotten to write it on the chart. Do you remember?”
Tommy chuckled.
“I should think I did! Wasn’t the old cat in a rage when she found out?
Not that she was a bad sort really, old Mother Greenbank! Good old
hospital–demobbed like everything else, I suppose?”
Tuppence sighed.
“Yes. You too?”
Tommy nodded.
“Two months ago.”
“Gratuity?” hinted Tuppence.
“Spent.”
“Oh, Tommy!”
“No, old thing, not in riotous dissipation. No such luck! The cost of
living–ordinary plain, or garden living nowadays is, I assure you, if you do
not know—-”
“My dear child,” interrupted Tuppence, “there is nothing I do NOT know
about the cost of living. Here we are at Lyons’, and we will each of us pay for
our own. That’s it!” And Tuppence led the way upstairs.
The place was full, and they wandered about looking for a table, catching
odds and ends of conversation as they did so.
“And–do you know, she sat down and CRIED when I told her she couldn’t have
the flat after all.” “It was simply a BARGAIN, my dear! Just like the one Mabel
Lewis brought from Paris—-”
“Funny scraps one does overhear,” murmured Tommy. “I passed two Johnnies
in the street to-day talking about some one called Jane Finn. Did you ever hear
such a name?”
But at that moment two elderly ladies rose and collected parcels, and
Tuppence deftly ensconced herself in one of the vacant seats.
Tommy ordered tea and buns. Tuppence ordered tea and buttered toast.
“And mind the tea comes in separate teapots,” she added severely.
Tommy sat down opposite her. His bared head revealed a shock of
exquisitely slicked-back red hair. His face was pleasantly ugly–nondescript,
yet unmistakably the face of a gentleman and a sportsman. His brown suit was
well cut, but perilously near the end of its tether.
They were an essentially modern-looking couple as they sat there. Tuppence
had no claim to beauty, but there was character and charm in the elfin lines of
her little face, with its determined chin and large, wide-apart grey eyes that
looked mistily out from under straight, black brows. She wore a small bright
green toque over her black bobbed hair, and her extremely short and rather
shabby skirt revealed a pair of uncommonly dainty ankles. Her appearance
presented a valiant attempt at smartness.
The tea came at last, and Tuppence, rousing herself from a fit of
meditation, poured it out.
“Now then,” said Tommy, taking a large bite of bun, “let’s get up-to-date.
Remember, I haven’t seen you since that time in hospital in 1916.”
“Very well.” Tuppence helped herself liberally to buttered toast.
“Abridged biography of Miss Prudence Cowley, fifth daughter of Archdeacon Cowley
of Little Missendell, Suffolk. Miss Cowley left the delights (and drudgeries)
of her home life early in the war and came up to London, where she entered an
officers’ hospital. First month: Washed up six hundred and forty-eight plates
every day. Second month: Promoted to drying aforesaid plates. Third month:
Promoted to peeling potatoes. Fourth month: Promoted to cutting bread and
butter. Fifth month: Promoted one floor up to duties of wardmaid with mop and
pail. Sixth month: Promoted to waiting at table. Seventh month: Pleasing
appearance and nice manners so striking that am promoted to waiting on the
Sisters! Eighth month: Slight check in career. Sister Bond ate Sister
Westhaven’s egg! Grand row! Wardmaid clearly to blame! Inattention in such
important matters cannot be too highly censured. Mop and pail again! How are
the mighty fallen! Ninth month: Promoted to sweeping out wards, where I found a
friend of my childhood in Lieutenant Thomas Beresford (bow, Tommy!), whom I had
not seen for five long years. The meeting was affecting! Tenth month: Reproved
by matron for visiting the pictures in company with one of the patients, namely:
the aforementioned Lieutenant Thomas Beresford. Eleventh and twelfth months:
Parlourmaid duties resumed with entire success. At the end of the year left