"And the sweet?" enquired Marjorie, pencil poised.
"Méringues!" said Liss firmly.
"Well, I would say chocolate soufflé every time—with whipped cream, of course!" replied Marjorie. "But have it your own way. Now for the savoury!"
"We don't want a savoury," said Liss.
"Remember," Marjorie reminded her, "that there will be gentlemen present."
"I was forgetting the gentlemen. Well—what?"
"My gentleman friend," said Marjorie, "is very fond of angels-on-horseback."
"All right! You can put them down if you like; only don't ask me to eat them: I expect I shall be stodged by that time, anyhow. Oh Marjie, if only it were true!" Liss hugged her hungry little self, longingly.
"There, that's the complete menu," said Marjorie. She laid down her pencil, took up the writing pad, and began to read:
"Oysters!" She took up her pencil again. "By the way, we can't have oysters."
"Why not?"
"You can only have oysters when there's an R in the month."
"Well, it's August!" said Liss. "And as they aren't going to be there anyhow, they may as well stay in!"
"No," said Marjorie. "This dinner is going to be things we would order here and now—just supposing we could. So don't let us spoil it by putting down impossible things."
Liss at once recognised the logical consistency of this view.
"All right!" she said. "No oysters! Hors d'oeuvres, instead. Then nice hot soup!"
"Yes—Potage à la reine."
"It sounds a bit watery; but I don't mind, so long as it's hot. Oh, how lovely it would be!"
"Sole meunière. That's Roy's favourite."
"Oh—Roy's to be there? That's your pretend, is it?"
Marjorie nodded over her hypothetical menu.
"That's a good idea. Who shall I pretend my man is? Toby?"
"All right."
"In that case, we shall want more than one bottle of champagne. You know what that child is! But never mind that just now! Read out some more food."
"Duckling—"
"And green peas, of course?"
"Of course!"
"What then?"
"That brings us to the méringues."
"Good! That should be enough. We will have coffee and crème de menthe afterwards, of course?"
"We will have cognac as well. You see, Roy—Oh, Liss!" For a moment Marjorie's fortitude forsook her. Her face sank into her friend's fluffy hair.
"Liss, dear," she murmured, "if only I knew!"
"It's Friday afternoon now," said Liss cheerfully. "We'll get lots to eat to-morrow, when the boys come up to town."
"I wasn't thinking of food," said Marjorie—"just then!"
"Well, I was! Oh, my dear, I'm hungry! I didn't know it was possible to be so hungry. What time is it?"
"About five, I think."
"Well, let's have a nice drink of water, and eat a couple of biscuits, and go to bed. It's the best way."
"Very well," said Marjorie listlessly. She was the more exhausted of the two; for Liss was of the ethereal type that seems to thrive on a diet of next-to-nothing. Neither girl had touched food, except a few biscuits, since the previous evening. This afternoon they had endeavoured to maintain morale by indulging in one of the oldest pastimes known to children of the world—the game of "Let's pretend!"—sturdily endeavouring to hold a fire in their hands by thinking on the frosty Caucasus.
Suddenly there came a tapping on the outer door. Both girls started up.
"Who on earth can that be?" said Marjorie, hurrying automatically to the mirror above the mantelpiece.
"I wonder if it is anybody with any money!" remarked Liss, hastily removing herself from the couch, where she had been stifling the pangs of hunger by lying on her front.
"Go and see!" commanded Marjorie, busy at the mirror.
Liss went out into the little vestibule, and reappeared, followed by a visitor. Her face was a study.
"This gentleman wants to see you, dear," she said solemnly. "I will leave you together!"
Marjorie turned hastily round.
"No—stay!" she commanded. "How do you do, Uncle Fred?"
"I am very well, thank you," said Uncle Fred in a low voice. Apprehension was written upon his features, and his large, weak mouth trembled. This adventure was trying him high. To penetrate into the boudoir of an actress—two actresses, apparently—was practically equivalent to visiting a theatre dressing-room, which he knew to be the last station before perdition.
Marjorie shook hands.
"Sit down," she said. "I am afraid we are not quite dressed for callers. Do you mind?"
Uncle Fred shook his head feebly, guiltily conscious that he did not mind enough. His niece was dressed in a very simple blue serge frock, with touches of scarlet at her waist and wrists. She was thinner and paler than when he had last seen her. Late suppers, of course. She had done something theatrical but undeniably becoming to her hair, which, instead of being discreetly piled upon her head, framed her face in a sort of aureole. In order to shake hands with him she had deposited upon the mantelpiece, without any attempt at concealment, a small powder-puff, with which she had obviously been tampering with that infallible symbol of respectability, a shiny nose. She wore very thin black silk stockings and patent leather shoes, with dangerously high heels. One of the shoes had a hole in the sole, but Marjorie kept that sole glued to the floor throughout the interview. The silk stockings had lisle tops, but naturally Uncle Fred did not know this. Blinking feebly, he turned his attention to Marjorie's companion. In the obscurity of the vestibule he had not particularly noticed her. He did so now. His pale blue eyes bulged.
Before him he beheld a small, fluffy creature in a flimsy garment which she would have called a negligée, but which to Uncle Fred looked suspiciously like a nightgown. On her feet were padded pink satin bedroom slippers. Her lips were bright red, and were directing a dazzling smile upon him. There were dark hollows under her large grey eyes. Uncle Fred resolutely averted his gaze, and turned again to his niece.
"This is Miss Lyle," announced Marjorie. "We share the flat. Liss, dear, this is my uncle, Mr. Clegg. Well, Uncle Fred, how are you? I'm sorry we can't offer you tea, but we—we have practically all our meals at a restaurant. Don't we, Liss?"
"We simply live there!" affirmed Liss.
"Will you have a cigarette?" continued Marjorie, offering a box. "Don't mind about that being the last one! There are plenty more."
"I do not smoke," replied Uncle Fred coldly.
"Throw it to me, Marjorie!" chirped the vision in the negligée. A moment later, genuinely oblivious of the sensation she was causing, Liss was lying back in the arm-chair, blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.
Marjorie proceeded to make conversation.
"Have you been at Netherby lately?" she asked. "I haven't heard a word from anybody there since I left. I wrote to father and mother, but neither of them answered, so I gave it up. I was sorry, all the same. I hear from Joe, of course. Have they conscripted Amos yet? How are the children?"
This was neither the tone nor the temper that Uncle Fred had anticipated from the prodigal. He had expected either flamboyant defiance or broken-hearted contrition—most probably the latter. This resolute, cheery, ladylike—yes, he had to admit it, ladylike—bonhomie was making his mission more difficult than he had anticipated. He cleared his throat.
"I was at Netherby during July," he began. "Your father and mother are well, though borne down with sorrow, over—over—"
"Over what?"
Uncle Fred, who had meant to improve the occasion, baulked at his first fence.
"Over this wicked war," he substituted.
"Well, they haven't much to worry about," said Marjorie composedly. "Joe tells me that he's in no particular danger, except from odd long-range shells. Amos—I suppose he has kept out of it all right?"
"Your brother is in Glasgow," said Uncle Fred, "doing civilian war work of national importance."
"I thought so," said Marjorie. "Trust Amos!"
"Your father," continued Uncle Fred, "commissioned me to ascertain your whereabouts in London—"
"How did you find us, by the way?" asked Marjorie. "It was rather clever of you."
"I set an investigation on foot," replied Uncle Fred with a not very successful assumption of grandeur.
"Quite a little Sherlock Holmes!" remarked an approving voice.
Despite himself, Uncle Fred looked round. The small siren in the arm-chair was regarding him with obvious interest. Doubtless she was taking his moral measure, with a view to ultimate conquest. As a matter of fact, Liss was wondering whether it would be feasible to borrow five shillings from him.
"How did you set about it?" Marjorie continued.
"I decided not to question the police. We were anxious to have as little scandal as possible—"
Marjorie rose with some deliberation, and took her stand upon the hearthrug exactly opposite her diplomatic relative.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"I began by instituting inquiries among the London theatrical managers."
"Then you knew I was working on the stage?"
"Yes. Your mother recognised your likeness in some periodical."
Marjorie nodded her head.
"So that was why father stopped my allowance!" she said. "I was wondering. Well, go on. Father has sent you to see me? What for?"
Uncle Fred had carefully rehearsed the little address which he proposed to deliver to his errant niece. Marjorie's point-blank query gave him as good an opening as he appeared likely to get.
"Your father," he began, settling down to work, "is a just man—"
"Yes; I think you're right there," agreed Marjorie. "He tries to be, anyhow; but he's too ignorant and narrow to succeed. That was why I left home. Go on!"
"Your father," reiterated Uncle Fred, who was of that brand of orator which finds it easier, when interrupted, to go right back to the beginning, "is a just man—"
"Yes; I know. You said that before," said Marjorie.
"No Encores, by Request!" added Liss.
"Your father suggested that when I returned to London I should institute inquiries as to your whereabouts. He was anxious to know if you had been spared during these years, and—"
"That was very kind of him," said Marjorie. "No!"—as Uncle Fred took another breath—"don't go back to the beginning again! 'If I had been spared'—yes?"
"And, if so, what your circumstances were."
"Why?"
"Your father said he would not like to feel that you were in actual destitution, and—"
"Oh! And?"
"I was to tell him if you were."
"And if I were?"
"He did not say; but he practically gave me to understand that if you would send him your assurance that you were truly and humbly repentant, and would endeavour in future, by Divine Grace, to raise yourself from your present condition"—Uncle Fred was settling comfortably down now to his pulpit manner—"he was prepared on his part, to temper justice with mercy. You would be provided for. Of course, you would never be permitted to return home. There are the children to think of—"
Next moment, Uncle Fred had the surprise of his blameless and dreary existence. A small figure in a tempestuous negligée whirled into his field of vision, and Liss—white-faced, stammering, passionate—stood over him.
"What do you mean?" she screamed. "You silly old blear-eyed devil, what do you mean by it? What do you mean by crowding into this flat where you weren't invited, and insulting my Marjie? How dare you! Get out before we throw you out—do you hear? You psalm-singing old nanny-goat, for two pins I'd pull your rotten little beard off!" She flew to Marjorie, and threw an arm round her shoulders. "And to think that real men are dying in this war every minute—and the finest women in the world killing themselves with overwork—just to keep insects like you alive! Why, I—Oh!" She choked.
Marjorie restored her small, hysterical, half-famished champion to the arm-chair.
"That's all right, Baby," she said placidly. "He means well, but he's had the same upbringing as father—poor old man! Sit down! Sit down too, Uncle Fred!" (The dazed ambassador was groping for the door.) "I want to talk to you."
The symposium resumed its session. Uncle Fred was so benumbed by his recent experience that when his late assailant deliberately renovated the scarlet of her lips in his presence he made no protest at all. How quickly a man can become a roué, even at fifty-nine!
"You can tell father," announced Marjorie, "that you gave me his message, and that I know him well enough to understand his point of view. In a way, there's something rather fine about it. I have seen enough of life in the last year or two to know that this world would be none the worse for a touch of good old-fashioned, Old Testament, discipline. Also, that many of my sex aren't to be trusted with a latch-key. But you can remind him, from me, that I am his daughter—and quite capable of taking care of myself!" She sat down again.
"Now, I will tell you exactly what I have been doing during the last two years. Like every decent, able-bodied person in this land, I have been doing what I could in the way of war work. I wasn't able to do as much as I wanted, because my education had been completely neglected; also, as most war work is unpaid, I had to work for my living at the same time. That was why I went on the stage. By working at night I had my days free to serve in a canteen. I have been in the canteen for more than a year now. I am not working at present, because I had a slight accident to my arm. I have also driven a motor-car, for a cabinet minister, liberating a man for active service. That was why I bobbed my hair, so that I could put my service-cap on and off my head easily. Most of us have done it; no one has time to waste over doing hair these days. We girl chauffeurs and munition makers have set quite a fashion. But, of course, you aren't interested in fashions. Besides, bobbed hair doesn't really prove anything. What you want is some direct evidence of what I have been doing." She thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what—I'll show you my motor-driver's licence. I know I put it away somewhere."
She crossed to the bureau, and took the licence out of a drawer.
"Here it is," she said, unfolding it. "You will notice it hasn't been renewed. That was because—"
Her voice died away. Liss glanced up, saw that her friend had turned white, and was swaying on her feet. She ran impulsively to her aid; but in a moment Marjorie had recovered herself, walked across to her flinching relative, and proffered the licence.
"There—you see!" she said. "I drove a car during all that time. It was war work, all right."
Uncle Fred examined the document mechanically, and handed it back.
"That seems quite in order," he muttered.
"Father is a business man, I know," continued Marjorie, with a cheery smile; "and I know business men like to see evidence in black and white. You can keep that licence, if you like, and send it to him from me, as a certificate of character, and tell him that I am very well—and busy—and happy—and respectable—and don't require providing for in any way whatever. And you can give my love to mother."
Uncle Fred rose to his feet, and held out his hand hesitatingly. Down in his puny soul he dimly felt himself in the presence of something rather unusually big.
"I will tell your father I have seen you," he said, "and what you have told me. And I'm—I'm sorry, if—"
Marjorie cut him short.
"That's all right!" she said, with great cheerfulness. "It was a difficult mission for you, I know, and I'm not surprised you made a mess of it. Now," she added briskly, "I feel terribly inhospitable at not having given you any tea. Liss and I are just going out to dinner. It's—it's—rather a special occasion with us, and we are going to have an extra good one. Won't you join us?"
She crossed to the bureau again, and picked up the writing-pad.
"We are going," she announced, resolutely avoiding the bulging eyes of Miss Elizabeth Lyle, "to have Potage à la reine, Sole meunière, Duckling, Méringues—"
But Uncle Fred was down and out.
"I can't accept," he replied, almost piteously. "I must be off to Dulwich. But thank you kindly!" He moved to the door. "I will write to your father. Good-bye, my girl!" He nodded nervously towards Liss. "Good-evening, all!"
Next moment the vestibule door had clicked behind him, and the girls were alone.
Liss threw her arms round Marjorie's neck.
"O magnificent, wonderful angel! How you stood up to that silly old Nosey Parker! How you put him in his place! How you bluffed him! But, darling, what a risk! Supposing he had accepted—what then?"
"What then?" Marjorie laughed unsteadily. "We would have taken him round the corner to Savroni's, and given him his dinner—every bit of it—that's all!"
Liss looked timidly up into her idol's face.
"Dearest," she enquired apprehensively, "are you feeling funny, at all? I don't like the way your fist is clenched. Relax!"
"I'm not feeling funny," Marjorie assured her, relaxing the fist in question. "Unless it's funny to be rich!" She held out her hand. "Look! Look what I found inside the pocket of my motor licence! I might have guessed, after that message. Dear, kind old man! I might have guessed—bless him!"
In her upturned palm lay a neatly folded bank-note.
Liss's eyes goggled.
"How much?" she whispered.
"We'll see." Marjorie unfolded the rustling treasure-trove. "Ten pounds! Now wasn't I right not to put down oysters? Oh, Baby, if only, only, only we had the guests!"
But Fortune, once she veers round, seldom does things by halves. There came a knock on the outer door.
"Hallo!" cried Liss. "Surely it's not that old Nanny back again?"
It was not. It was a soldier—or rather, an elderly civilian in uniform. He saluted, with all the elaboration of the newly initiated. Both girls surveyed him in perplexity. Then Liss screamed:
"It's Uncle Ga-Ga!" and embraced him forthwith.
Uncle Ga-Ga it was. With his hair dyed a new and awe-inspiring colour, and an almost convincing set of false teeth, he did not look a day over forty-five. He held his old head proudly erect, and offered a hand to each of the girls, with a gallant gesture.
"Yes, ladies," he said; "I have the great happiness to inform you that I have this day been accepted as a member of His Majesty's Forces. I wear the uniform of King George the Fifth." His right hand went to the salute. "The King—God bless him! I have only just put it on, and I came round here at once to show myself to you—my two kind friends and unfailing supporters! There were some of my colleagues"—his mild eyes flashed—"men who should have known better—who derided my pretensions—who said that the King had no need of my services! But not you, ladies! You knew the King better than they did! Now, behold me! It is a common triumph for us all!"
"And we are going to celebrate it!" announced Liss. "You are coming straight out to dinner with us—isn't he, Marjorie?"
"Most certainly he is!" said Marjorie.
"We are going," proclaimed Liss, "to have Potage à la reine; Sole meunière—"
Uncle Ga-Ga laid his hand upon his heart, and made a courtly bow.
"Ladies," he announced, "you overwhelm me! But before I accede to your most hospitable invitation, pray read this: it may affect your immediate plans. I found it lying thrust under your outer door."
He proffered an orange-coloured envelope. It was addressed to Marjorie.
Telegrams in war-time take tense priority over everything else. Marjorie seized the envelope, ripped open the flap with one feverish movement, took out the message, and carried it to the window to read. Then, very deliberately, for the first and only time in her life, she slid down upon the floor, with her head on the window-seat, in a dead faint."
"Oh, God!" cried Liss, running to her—"it must be something about Roy!"
They carried her to the sofa, and laid her down. Her eyes were closed, but began to flutter again almost immediately.
"The telegram—should we read it? Would it be right?" asked Uncle Ga-Ga.
"Oh, yes!" said Liss: "I'd forgotten about it." She turned back Marjorie's closed fingers, extracted the crumpled message, and smoothed it out. Then she gave a little sudden chuckling sob.
"Listen!" she said; and read the message aloud....
"Sent off from Folkestone," she added breathlessly, "at four-forty. What time is it now?"
"About half-past six, I think."
"Then he will be here any minute!" cried Liss, in sudden panic. "We must get her to for him," she added, in the mysterious syntax of her kind. "Help me, Uncle!"
"A lovely face!" observed Uncle Ga-Ga, respectfully, as he assisted Liss in administering to Marjorie what they both firmly believed to be First Aid—"but pale, and thin!" He sighed gently. "It is rather beautiful to think that people can still swoon for joy."
"Not joy," said Liss, panting—"starvation! But she'll have her guest at dinner, after all. (She's coming to now.) It's been a great pretend! (Darling, lean your head on me.) She'll be as right as rain to-morrow. In fact, she's jolly well got to be. It's her wedding day!"