Nan In London

16

Nan In London,

Or, The Perils of Hot Little Rooms

    Mrs Urqhart, though claiming not to know anybody to speak of in town, pretty soon revealed herself to have a host of acquaintance. Not all of whom she would introduce, declaring frankly that they were vulgar bodies, not the sorts of persons that Nan should be getting to know. They were indeed vulgar bodies, some of them very large, loud, red-faced and jovial indeed, but as might have been expected of persons who were friends of Mrs Urqhart’s, they all appeared very good-natured, and if she probably could not have talked to them about very much, nevertheless Nan would quite have liked to be introduced to them. But in most cases Mrs Urqhart would wave cheerfully, nod firmly, and tug her away. The life histories of some of these vulgar persons which she would then hiss into Nan’s ear were entirely fascinating and made her wish more than ever that they were proper people for her to know.

    She did, however, make the acquaintance of a Mr Fishe and his family. Mr Fishe was one of the largest, loudest, reddest-faced and most jovial of the vulgar bodies, and very obviously not the sort of man who would ever be put off by a wave and a firm nod. He admitted frankly that he did not pretend to be anything but “a tradesman what had worked himself up by his bootstraps, my Lady”: Nan thought silently that he probably meant pulled himself up by the said appendages, but smiled and nodded. She pretty soon discovered that such slight linguistic lapses were typical of Mr Fishe: whatever he said was just very slightly skewed, so that you had the impression that perhaps he saw the world from a rather different angle than did the rest of humanity.

    Mr Fishe looked as if he should have had a large, jovial family like himself, but rather sadly, in Nan’s opinion, he did not: his wife had died young and he had but the three children: the eldest, to whom he habitually referred as “our brave Agusta”—Nan did not think that “Agusta” was an English name but was too polite to ask—was to all appearances very happily married to a Mr Huffs, with three bouncing, red-cheeked, chubby infants, and did not seem to merit the appellation “brave” at all. After some time Nan would discover that the surname was not Huffs, but Hough. The next child was a boy: his name being Peter there was nothing very much Mr Fishe could do with it except turn it into “Peterken.” Not “-kin”, he very clearly pronounced an E. Mr Peterken Fishe was a tall, lean person with a pale complexion and thin black hair which he wore very much brushed back. He had remarkably small ears, set flat and close to his head, and a very long neck. The which combination inspired Mrs Urqhart to impart the thought: “Peterken Fishe? That ain’t a fish, deary, it be as like an eel on two legs as I ever hope to see.” Nan could only nod, choking helplessly.

    Mr Fishe’s youngest child, Miss Fishe, was also thin: a little, pale, apologetic person. Pretty enough, with big hazel eyes, limp light brown ringlets and a sweet mouth, but with no spark about her. Her jovial father was clearly an embarrassment to her, for when she did not absolutely whisper an agonized apology for one of his more outspoken remarks, she would certainly look one. Mr Fishe appeared to take this entirely in his stride; indeed, not to notice it. Miss Fishe had contracted an engagement, which had become a long-standing engagement, to a Mr Trout. Very fortunately Mrs Urqhart had forewarned Nan of this point so she was able to retain her gravity when Mr Fishe revealed it. –The name was actually Truitt, as Miss Fishe later explained in an apologetic whispered aside. The which very nearly overset Nan, in spite of her good intentions. Mr Truitt, according to Mr Fishe, was “in the sureness”. Under interrogation Mrs Urqhart, grinning, revealed that he was a clerk at Lloyd’s.

    According to Mr Fishe, Miss Fishe, whose name appeared to be Constant, was “over-partial to walks in the Park”—puzzling, for according to Mrs Urqhart this was a most respectable activity for a young lady. Nan concluded that he must have meant “very partial”. Or “extra-partial”? Something of the sort. She happily agreed to accompany her: Constant was a sweet girl, and if she was clearly not very bright, as clearly there was no malice in her.

    Constant and Nan were strolling through the Park one morning, as had become their custom, followed at a proper distance by Albert, Mrs Urqhart’s footman, when Nan was startled to see a dashing-looking officer in hussar’s uniform smiling and bowing to them in a most particular manner.

    “Do you know that gentleman, Miss Fishe?” she said in a low voice.

    “Oh!” gasped little Miss Fishe, colouring up very much. “It is a Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh, Lady Benedict! I—I scarcely— But we encountered him at a masquerade: he—he spoke to Pa; and you know what Pa is, he invited him to join us.”

    Nan now recognized the hussar as one of the younger men at the Rockinghams’ Easter ball: where his demeanour towards herself had been entirely different.

    “So eet ees,” she said on a grim note, beckoning to Albert.

    The footman hurried up, looking anxious. “Is everythink all right, my Lady? Shall I dot ’im one on ’is ’pertinent nose?”

    “Er—I theenk that weell not be necessary, Albert,” said Nan on a weak note, inclining her head very, very slightly in the direction of Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh.

    “Mr Urqhart’s learned me ’ow to box real good, my Lady,” said Albert wistfully.

    “I am vairy tempted to let you demonstrate your prowess,” admitted Nan with an amazed glare in the direction of where the gallant hussar was now raising his quizzing glass and smiling in the most odious manner.

    “Oh, dear!” gasped Miss Fishe, as the Lieutenant approached.

    “I’m ready, my Lady!” hissed Albert, squaring his shoulders.

    The footman was half the girth of Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh and something like six inches shorter: Nan bit her lip a little.

    Brinsley-Pugh gave an exaggerated low, sweeping bow, and drawled: “Well, well, well! Little Miss Minnow, ain’t it? How de do? And stap me, it’s Lady B.!” He looked Nan up and down. “Dashing,” he approved, winking.

    “How dare you, sir!” she gasped, turning very red.

    “Clear orf, or we’ll see the colour of yer claret!” cried Albert.

    Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh laughed.

    “Please go away,” said Constant in a low, trembling voice.

    “What? I say, you can’t be so cruel, little Miss Minnow! Why, last time we met, Lady B.,” he said, again winking, “it was all complaisance, assure you!”

    “I was not,” whispered Constant to Nan, nearly in tears. “But Pa— Only—”

    “Yes. Come along, my dear,” said Nan grimly. She took Constant’s arm very firmly, and led her off. But to her horror, Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh ranged alongside.

    “’Ere! Clear orf!” cried Albert, dancing along with his fists raised pugnaciously.

    “What is that, a gnat?” wondered Lieutenant Brinsley-Pugh to the mild April sky.

    Gritting her teeth, Nan walked faster. The lieutenant easily kept pace. Finally, seeing that Constant was failing to hold back her tears, Nan stopped and turned to face him.

    “Go away thees eenstant, or I shall scream.”

    “Pooh!” he said with a laugh.

    “Go AWAY!” she shouted.

    “’Ave at yer!” gasped Albert, dancing in, and dancing out again.

    Nan took a deep breath and tried to regain her composure. “Sir, I theenk you meestake your company.”

    “Assure you I don’t, ma’am. A young woman is known by the company she keeps, ain’t she?” He looked Constant up and down, smiling.

    “HOW DARE YOU?” shouted Nan furiously.

    “Brinsley-Pugh would dare anything where two defenceless ladies are in question,” said a new voice from behind them.

    The ladies jumped, and gasped.

    Bobby Amory came up to Nan’s side without haste, looking down his straight nose with a very cold expression. “Lady Benedict is a connexion of mine. You may address your remarks to me, Brinsley-Pugh,” he drawled.

    The gallant lieutenant turned very red and began to bluster. Bobby cut him short with: “I shall be speaking to your colonel.”

    “No! No harm done, eh? All a mistake! I say, you wouldn’t do that, Bobby!”

    Bobby eyed him coldly. “You have the advantage of me.”

    While Nan was still wondering what on earth that meant, the lieutenant turned redder than ever, gasped: “Amory, then! Beg pardon, I’m sure! All a mistake—assure you, Lady Benedict, meant nothing by it! Beg you will excuse—” And took himself off at what was virtually a run.

    “Why didn’t you hit him, pray tell?” said Bobby icily to Albert.

    “He nearly deed,” said Nan quickly, seeing the crestfallen Albert was now nigh as tearful as Constant.

    “Sir, I woulda done in ’alf a minute!”

    “Of course he would. He deed not want to make a scene,” said Nan hurriedly. “Thank you so much for rescuing us, Mr Amory: you were perfectly splendeed.”

    Bobby bowed. “Glad to be of service, Lady Benedict. –But I tell you what, I would sack this fellow, here.”

    “Er—well, he ees not my footman. But as I say, he—he deed his best. Pray allow me to introduce Miss Fishe, sir!” she said quickly. “Miss Fishe, this gentleman ees Mr Amory.”

    Bobby bowed politely; Constant, very overcome, gave a wobbly curtsey and gasped: “Charmed, I’m sure!”

    “Likewise. Er—forgive me, but haven’t we met, Miss Fishe?”

    “Not exactly— Um— Lucy Fisher is my cousin, sir!” she gasped, turning beetroot.

    “Good gad,” he said numbly.

    “Her name is really Fishe, of course,” said Constant humbly.

    Talking of the piscine world, Mr Bobby’s good-looking face now bore approximately the expression of a day-old herring on a slab. Glazed and motionless, so to speak. Nan looked at him in astonishment.

    “Quite,” he said in a strangled voice. “Er, I had best escort you ladies home.”

    “Thank you. The carriage ees waiting for us near the gates,” said Nan.

    “Splendid.” Bobby bowed and offered his arm.

    He did not desert the ladies when the carriage was reached, but travelled with them to deposit Constant safely on her Pa’s doorstep; scarcely speaking, however. Nan was rather puzzled, but remembering the circumstances of their last meeting, or rather the occasion on which they had not met, and he had not got farther than her door, decided it was only natural.

    “I—I really am most grateful, Mr Amory,” she said as they set off again.

    “Er—not at all.” Bobby cleared his throat. “Forgive me for speaking frankly, Lady Benedict, but where on earth did you meet Miss Fishe?”

    “Her father ees an old friend of Mrs Urqhart’s, sir,” said Nan, staring at him.

    “What? Oh, Lor’.” Bobby sagged against the comfortable squabs of the carriage. “Cousin Betsy’s carriage, ain’t it? Thought I recognized that dashed footman. Staying with her, are you?”

    “Yes. She has been so vairy kind to me.”

    “I’m glad to hear it. Only—” He coughed.

    “Leetle Miss Fishe ees entirely respectable,” said Nan firmly.

    “Er—mm. Sure she is, ma’am. Only—well, dash it, the girl’s a cousin of Lucy Fisher’s! Can’t blame Brinsley-Pugh, if he’s seen her in that company!”

    Nan took a deep breath. “I theenk you had best tell me exactly who Lucy Fisher ees, Mr Amory.”

    Bobby smiled weakly. “Er—well, she’s an actress, Lady Benedict.”

    “Oh? How eenteresting. We are to go to the play soon, perhaps we shall see her.”

    “Uh—mm. Very like. Well, depends what play it is. Not a tragedienne, y’know.”

    There was a desperate look in Mr Amory sherry-coloured eye. Nan looked enquiringly, and waited.

    “Thing is—uh—she has the reputation of being a dasher, y’see.” Bobby swallowed. “Started off as an equestrienne,” he offered.

    Nan looked blank. “That means a lady who rides, no?”

    “Uh—mm. No, but what I mean is, Lady Benedict, she was used to perform at Astley’s Amphitheatre!”

    She laughed delightedly. “I see! How exciting!”

    “Er—well, yes, dare say it might strike like that… Only it ain’t a respectable occupation,” he ended limply.

    “No? The world ees prejudiced against Miss Lucy Fisher and her leetle cousin because Miss Fisher earned her living by riding a horse?”

    Bobby reddened. “It ain’t only that! Half the time it was riding a horse in very little save spangles! Lucy Fisher is too dashing for her own good. –Look, if Miss Fishe has been seen in her company, it’s a wonder she ain’t haunted by a dozen like Brinsley-Pugh!” he added desperately.

    “Oh; I see.”

    “Aye,” he said, sagging. “No matter how respectable the girl might be—and Cousin Betsy does know some dashed queer fish—”

    He broke off. She had collapsed in helpless gales of laughter. “What?” he said in an offended tone.

    For some time Nan could only shake her head helplessly. Finally she was able to gasp: “Queer—fish!”

    “Oh,” he said sheepishly, grinning. “I see. Yes, well, badly chosen, I grant you—”

    “Yes!” she gasped.

    “But it more than fits the case,” he said grimly. “The girl’s family is not entirely respectable, y’see.”

    “Mm,” said Nan slowly.

    Bobby eyed her nervously, but was silent.

    Eventually she said: “Forgive me, Mr Amory, I dare say thee ees not a respectable theeng to ask. But I gather you yourself know Miss Lucy Fisher?”

    “Er—well, I have met her, yes,” he said stiffly.

    It was obvious he was angry with her. She gave him a mocking look. “But as you are a gentleman, that ees perfectly acceptable. Whereas I should not really even be seen out walking weeth her harmless leetle cousin—no?”

    “That is perfectly correct,” he said, flushing up.

    “Eet ees prejudiced and—and unjust!” she cried, with a scornful curl of her lip.

    “Very like. But it is the way of the world,” replied Bobby grimly.

    Nan knew that as well as he. She had wanted to see what his reaction would be. She looked at him sideways and said lightly: “Shall I be damned een the eyes of Engleesh Society, then,”—the “Engleesh” very long-drawn-out—“eef I continue to walk out with leetle Constant Fishe?”

    Bobby could see she was mocking both the customs of his social milieu and his own adherence to them. “You may not be damned,” he said grimly, “but you will certainly be persecuted by the likes of Brinsley-Pugh.”

    Nan looked at him under her lashes and decided it was no use asking him to describe the circumstances in which he had met the dashing Lucy Fisher. He would be shocked to his marrow. Yet it would have been so fascinating! Oh, well. It was hardly his fault if he was limited. There must be few creatures alive—and certainly very few in English Society—who, if they did not fully subscribe to the precepts and proscriptions of the milieu in which they lived, would admit to not doing so.

    Mr Urqhart’s large and commodious town house was at a considerable distance from the residence of Mr Fish—and that alone, thought Bobby crossly as they reached it, should have warned her! He got out and handed her down politely.

    “Thank you,” said Nan on a remorseful note. She should not have teased him “I am truly grateful for your rescue, Mr Amory. I—I could not cope weeth the horrid creature at all.”

    “Few ladies could have, Lady Benedict.”

    Was that was a reproof, or only reassurance? She looked at him doubtfully.

    Once he had suffered Mrs Urqhart to hug him tightly and buss him fervently on the cheek, declaring he was a rascal and she had had no idea he was in town, Bobby cleared his throat and said: “I have something particular to say to you, Cousin. -If you will excuse us, Lady Benedict?”

    Nan allowed him to bow her out, only saying loudly as a parting shot: “Eet was not her fault!”

    “Go on, what have I done now?” said Mrs Urqhart drily.

    Bobby closed the door firmly. “Allowed her to jaunt about all over with that Fishe female, that’s what, ma’am!”

    “Eh? Constant Fishe can’t hardly say boo to her own shadder, let alone a goose.”

    “I came across them in the Park, being accosted by that fellow, Brinsley-Pugh,” he said grimly. “Are you not aware of who Miss Fishe’s cousin is, ma’am?”

    “No, I ain’t, and don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, you rascal!” she retorted crossly.

    Bobby bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Cousin Betsy. But really—! Look, the little girl may be all that is respectable, and I don’t say as she is not, but I’ve seen her with my own eyes in the company of Lucy Fisher!”

    “Eh?”

    Bobby groaned. “You are really out of touch, are you not? Let me think... Cast your mind back to—well, ’06-’07. If I was to say ‘Miss Georgian Purdew’?”

    “Georgian ain’t a name! Well, no more is Constant, but— Oh,” she said in a hollow voice: “the floozy with the black curls what made eyes at Pumps that time we all went to Ranelagh?”

    “Quite.”

    “Called herself an actress. We seen her in some play. Fallin’ out of her dress.”

    “Quite. Lucy Fisher, though she has brown curls, not black, might be her double.”

    “Oh, Lawks,” said Mrs Urqhart in dismay.

    “I’m glad to see you see it that way.”

    “Get down off your high horse, will you?” she said with a sigh. “I wasn’t to know: Mr Fishe ain’t never mentioned— Here, is you sure, Bobby? It ain’t the same name.”

    “Yes. The little girl herself told us she had changed it.”

     “I see. I’ll kill that Fishe!”

    “Possibly he is not aware whose company his daughter frequents.”

    “No, well, you seems to frequent it yourself!” she said smartly.

    “That is not so,” he said stiffly. “I happened across a party of them. There was Lucy Fisher and a couple of other actresses, Brinsley-Pugh, the little Fishe creature, a couple of other fellows, and,”—he eyed her grimly—“Curwellion.”

    Mrs Urqhart blenched. “Eh? Ain’t he just about the worst rake in town?

    “Exactly,” said Bobby with grim satisfaction.

    “I shall definite kill that Fishe! Not to say warn him! Well, dessay he don’t know. Only what is he about, to be letting her jaunt all over in that crowd?”

    “The connexion is not a fit one for Lady Benedict, Betsy.”

    “No,” she said in a hollow voice. “Only she has sort of took little Constant up.”

    “Then she must be persuaded to drop her again,” he said firmly.

    “If that ain’t just like a man!” she said in exasperation.

    “Eh?”

    “Why don’t you offer to persuade her yourself, Bobby?” she demanded crossly, ringing the bell. “Tea,” she said crossly as a footman came in. “And if there is any of Bapsee’s narial barfees in the house I will have ’em. Otherwise bring any little cakes.”

    Bobby cleared his throat as the footman bowed and withdrew. “I doubt she would take any notice of me.”

    “No, well, she can be a right handful, that is what. Needs a strong hand, y’see.”

    “Very like. Well, sweet reason will certainly not work,” he admitted sourly.

    “No,” she said drily.

    There was a short silence.

    Bobby burst out: “The thing is, I am very sure she knew I was in the right of it!”

    “Quite,” said Mrs Urqhart drily.

    His mouth tightened. “If you will excuse me, Cousin, I shall not stay for refreshments. Pray convey my regards to Lady Benedict.”

    Mrs Urqhart did not attempt to detain him.

    “Aye, well,” she said slowly to herself as the front door was heard to close behind him. “That’s probably just as well.”

    She did not broach the subject of Constant Fishe with Nan until the next day.

    Nan listened meekly to what her kind hostess had to say, and replied that she quite understood. Mrs Urqhart eyed her narrowly, but did not say that understanding was not agreement. Instead she said cheerfully: “Well, you won’t miss her, my love, for I has a splendid scheme: what say as we have ’em all up to town and takes in a few frivolities, and so forth?”

    Nan flushed up, hesitating. “That would be delightful, only—”

    “I get it. Well, I shall get off to them Horse Guards and speak to General Kernohan meself!”

    Nan swallowed.

    “’Sides, I don’t mean to do the Season. Only a few concerts and so forth. –S’pose you is set on having that Gump, if the little girls come?”

    “Er—yes,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “Keep it out of my way, is all!” said Mrs Urqhart genially. “Tim tells me there is to be a balloon ascension next month: the little ones will like that, hey?”

    Nan smiled: Mrs Urqhart, who saw very little of her own grandchildren, with one daughter in Yorkshire and the other in India, was clearly all set to have a splendid time with Mina, Amrita and little Johnny. “They will adore eet. Thank you so much, dear Mrs Urqhart!”

    “Think nothin’ of it,” she said vaguely. “Mrs Stewart will like to have a bit of jollity, too. And it might wake Cherry up a bit. S’pose I had best write to Mrs Henry afore I asks Tarry. –No, tell you what: we’ll have her up to town anyway, and if her Ma says No, which ten to one she will, she will at least have had a taste of fun afore she has to go home again!”

    Forthwith the Machiavellian Mrs Urqhart heaved herself to her feet and went off to write several notes. The which included one to Cherry, assuring her they would hardly be going out at all, and it was mainly to let the little ones see the balloon, one to Tarry, to tell her she could come, but she was to behave herself and set an example to the younger girls, and not to write to her mother, as she herself was doing so, one warmly inviting Dom, another, rather an afterthought, inviting Mr Eric Charleson, and one to Sir Noël Amory, informing him that Cherry was to stay with her in town and he might do as he liked, but as the girl was clearly miserable with the present state of affairs, he had better do it quick.

    She was not entirely satisfied with this last. But if she said too much then either  he’d get the pip and let Cherry break it off, or else he’d renew his offer as a sort of noblesse oblige, which would not half set them off on the wrong foot. Drat him.

    Cunning though she was, and experienced in the ways of wilful young persons, Betsy Urqhart had yet made a tactical error in not extracting from Nan Baldaya Benedict a positive promise that she would see nothing more of Constant Fishe. Nan would not have broken her word: but she was not above a bit of deception when her will was crossed and she had made no promises in the matter. Therefore, two days later, and well before the house party from The Towers was due in town, Miss Fishe was fluttered to receive an afternoon caller. The more so in view of her company at the precise moment.

    Mr Truitt’s sister, a melancholy female of uncertain years, was there, possibly to play propriety: though Mr Truitt himself was not present and, indeed, presumably at the sureness; a florid, portly gentleman with an amazing flowered waistcoat was there; a slender, fair young gentleman with a nervous manner was there; so was a taller young gentleman with a mop of light brown curls and a winning smile; so was a plump, smiling, pretty but not young woman in an amazingly upstanding scarlet satin bonnet; and so was an extremely pretty young woman whose very pink cheeks, pearly teeth and riotous brown ringlets were very much set off by a stunning walking-dress of palest pink velvet, frogged and corded and epauletted in silver for all the world like an hussar’s uniform, with a palest pink velvet shako to match, adorned with two large pale pink ostrich plumes. Nan recognised in less than the flash of an eye that imprimis, the outfit was definitely on the vulgar side of too-dashing, secundus, the outfit was utterly adorable and she herself could have died for it, and tertius, that this, surely, must be the notorious Miss Lucy Fisher!

    The flustered Constant jumped up, gasping: “Oh! Dear Lady Benedict! Oh—you should not— Pray—”

    Smilingly Nan overrode her efforts at objection and apology, and persuaded her to effect introductions. The two young gentlemen and the melancholy Miss Truitt appeared overcome to be introduced to Lady Benedict. But the stout gentleman in the loud waistcoat, beaming all over his red-cheeked, purple-veined face, heaved himself up, puffing slightly, and bowed very low, flourishing a lace-edged handkerchief in one hand, the other pressed to his heart.

    “Most deeply and truly gratified, my Lady! And vastly and sincerely honoured to meet a true lady who is not above her company. And may I say as you do your lovely self veritable credit?” –Another sweeping bow. He had a rich voice of enormous fruitiness: it was almost like hearing one of Mrs Urqhart’s moistest, plummiest dark fruit-cakes up and utter. Added to which, he was terrifically scented. Whether it was the pomade with which he had plastered his receded but nevertheless very, very black and amazingly curled locks, Nan could not have said. Though had she been asked to hazard a guess she would have said he sprayed his large person liberally with scent as well.

    “Mr Perseus Brentwood,” said Constant faintly.

    “Delighted, sir,” said Nan feebly as the scent engulfed her.

    “Ah!” he said, straightening with a definite creak.—After a moment’s incredulity Nan realised she was not hearing things: the creak was exactly that of Mrs Urqhart’s corset, so he was undoubtedly wearing one!—“I see your La’yship has heard of my humble and unworthy self.”

    At this the older lady with the scarlet bonnet rose and said robustly: “Rubbish, Percy, her Ladyship has never heard of you in her life, and why should she, pray? I’m Mrs Pippa Storey, me Lady,” she said on a grim note to Nan, nodding the bonnet at her, “and permit me to tell you, your Ladyship didn’t ought to be here.” She looked at her defiantly.

    Although Mrs Storey was undoubtedly old enough to be her mother, Nan could see that, in spite of the defiant look, she had gone very red as she finished this speech. She smiled suddenly. “I know that, Mrs Storey, but eet ees vairy kind een you to point eet out to me.”

    “Oh,” said Mrs Pippa Storey, very taken aback. She eyed her warily.

    “But you see,” said Nan with her little gurgle of laughter: “today I am having a leetle adventure, escaping from my everyday existence!”

    “I get you,” she acknowledged. “That don’t make it right, though.”

    “No, vairy possibly not. But eef I promise that tomorrow I weell be vairy good and dull and proper, may I not stay?”

    “Well, it ain’t my house,” said Mrs Storey grudgingly. “Only I dare say as it won’t do no harm, for the onct.”

    “Of course it will not, Pippa!” cried the young lady in pink with a laugh. “What fustian! Lor’, I am sure we are as respectable as any of the Lords and Sirs what hang around the playhouse, making fools of theirselves over us poor girls!” She gave a long and, if over-loud, nevertheless charmingly musical trill of laughter.

    “My cousin, Miss Lucy Fisher, Lady Benedict,” whispered Constant.

    “Of course. You are even prettier than I had heard, Miss Fisher, and I am so pleased to meet you,” said Nan, holding out her hand.

    Lucy Fisher bounced up, took the hand in her own and did a sweeping curtsey, right down to the ground.

    “I never seen anythink so elegant,” said Miss Truitt glumly as she rose.

    “It ain’t fair, is it?” agreed Mrs Pippa Storey cheerfully.

    Lucy Fisher did not appear impressed, in spite of the curtsey, by Nan’s consequence, for she winked at her. “Charmed, I’m sure, but Lor’, there ain’t nothink to choose atween the pair of us, for looks, ask me! –Look at us, Whittikins, are we not as like as two pippins in a basket?” she suddenly demanded of the taller, brown-haired young man.

    “Why—why, yes, Miss Fisher. Delightful, indeed.”

    Nan perceived from his speech that he was a gentleman. She could not help wondering if his Mamma knew what he was up to. Lucy Fisher, with much fluttering of the eyelids, then confided that they never called Mr Whittaker and Mr Brownloe anythink but Whittikins and Lulu.

    “Lucy, my love, I declare I know not what her Ladyship will be thinking of you,” said Mr Perseus Brentwood in tones of measured disapproval. Nan waited in some trepidation but to her vast entertainment he did not express any condemnation of the thought, but only of its mode of expression. “Not ‘anythink’, my angel: ‘anything’.”

    Lucy tossed her head and sat down again, patting the sofa beside her. “Pooh! If you imagine the gentlemen come to see me on the stage because of the way I speak, you is very much out, Mr Brentwood! –Come and set here, Lady B., and we shall pretend we’re sisters. For we are so like, I am sure we could be!”

    “Thank you. But I am not as pretty as you, I theenk?” said Nan, sitting beside her.

    Lucy laughed and tossed her head in a gratified manner.

    “She practises that for hours before her mirror,” noted Mrs Pippa Storey drily.

    “A girl has to, in my position,” said Lucy gravely to Nan.

    “Eet must be such an eenteresting life: I envy you, Miss Fisher.”

    “Well, I wouldn’t say as it were interestink, exact,” she said, momentarily disconcerted.

    “That is because you are no true Thespian, my dear child,” said Mr Perseus Brentwood deeply.

    “With those looks, she don’t need to be,” noted Mrs Storey.

    “No, indeed!” agreed the blond young Brownloe fervently.

    “Lulu, you is an idiot!” cried Lucy Fisher, laughing very much. “Did you ever hear such a backhanded compliment, Lady B.?”

    “Well, no,” said Nan, trying not to laugh. “I am sure you meant eet kindly, though,” she said to the blushing Mr Brownloe, wishing she dared to address him as “Lulu.”

   “Oh—ah—absolutely!” he gasped.

    Fascinated though she was by the company, Nan could not think of anything to say, and feared an awkward silence was about to fall. But no such thing: Mr Perseus Brentwood took charge of the conversation, favouring Nan first with a disquisition on his own present employment and past distinguished theatrical history, and then, ascertaining she was very newly come to town, with a summary of all the entertainments currently available in the metropolis. Some of them, being along the lines of masked balls and masquerades, on the unsuitable side, sadly.

    “There’s dancing bears over Shoreditch way,” offered Mr “Lulu” hoarsely.

    “Shoreditch! A lady born don’t want to be goin’ there: where is your wits, Lulu?” cried Lucy Fisher scornfully.

    Wistfully Nan admitted: “I own, I should adore to see the dancing bears, and show them to my leetle boy.”

    “Never tell us you has a little boy, too!” cried Lucy in amaze. “Why, we might be twins! My Tommy is four, how old is yours?”

    “Johnny ees four, too: eet ees truly amazing!” agreed Nan with a laugh.

    “Lor’, aye,” she said in awe. “Eerie. My hubby were a Mr Shrubb, only I never used the name. ‘Lucy Shrubb’,” she said, wrinkling up her pretty face. “No, it don’t strike as euphy-nous, do it?”

    “Euphonious, dear,” said Mr Brentwood heavily. “Euphonious.”

    “It don’t strike like them, neither!” agreed Lucy with a giggle.

    “No; ‘Lucy Fisher’ ees prettier,” said Nan quickly as Mr Brentwood turned alarmingly purple. “May I ask, are you a widow, too, then, Miss Fisher?”

    “Well, not exact. Though I might be, by now!” she said hopefully. “No: ‘e run orf. The piker.”

    “Taking her stocking with him. For myself, I would have prosecuted the foul scoundrel the length and breadth of this fair land,” said Mr Brentwood deeply.

    “And maybe one of them lawyer fellows might have done somethink for you, too, Mr Brentwood!” she retorted sharply. “Only I seen three, would you believe, Lady B.? And there was only one thing as they intentioned doink for me, I can tell you!”

    “That’s true enough,” said Mrs Storey grimly. “Outside taking her money, out of course.”

    “It paints a sad picture of the human race, do it not, Lady Benedict?” said Miss Truitt glumly.

    “Er—well, eet certainly paints a sad one of the legal profession, Miss Truitt.”

    “Exact,” agreed Lucy. “And Mr Curtius, he were my manager afore Mr Brentwood, well, he said as how I should see the Runners. See the Runners! says I. See a Runner in a ditch, with yer petticoats over yer head, aye! Acos I never met one as was desirous of helpin’ a poor girl in trouble to nothink but a helpin’ of Mr Runner!”

    “What ees a Runner, pray?” asked Nan in bewilderment.

    “Lord bless you, Lady B., a Bow Street Runner!”

    “The guardians of the law, Lady Benedict,” explained Mr Perseus Brentwood, “and had a responsible person accompanied our dear Lucy—”

    “Well, Mr Curtius weren’t responsible. Added to which he were quick enough to urge the Runners upon me, but shy enough when it came to frontin’ up at Bow Street!”

    “Dare say there was a warrant out after him, himself,” young Mr Whittaker explained to Nan.

    “I see!”

    Lucy sniffed loudly. “Two or three, aye. Acos he were what we call an undecharged bankrup’, Lady B., only we never knowed till he upped and orf, leaving all us players flat. –Anyroad, I ain’t seen Mr Shrubb from that day to this, and good riddance!” she ended loudly, on a note of dénouement.

    Nan jumped a little. “No, well, good riddance indeed. And ees your leetle Tommy a stout boy, Miss Fisher?”

    “Aye, he’s strong as a little horse, thank the Lord.”

    Nan smiled very much. “So ees my Johnny.”

    Miss Fisher then declared they must get ’em together: Nan agreed, though she could see Mrs Storey was looking disapproving and Miss Truitt doubtful.

    “Constant, deary, where is the refreshment?” Miss Fisher then demanded without ceremony.

    Very flustered, Constant rang the bell, with much anxious apology.

    It being only afternoon, Nan was a little disconcerted to see the spread that was then brought in.

    “Players eats hearty but early,” explained Mrs Storey, looking greedily at a whole roast chicken. “Do you want to carve, Percy, or shall I?”

    Mr Brentwood handed her a carving knife and fork and himself turned his attention to an immense raised pie.

    “No-one’s belly don’t feel like food right afore a performance,” said Lucy, tucking a napkin unaffectedly into the high neck of the pink velvet creation.

    “Most understandable,” sighed Miss Truitt over a platter of oysters.

    “Eendeed: I should not dare to get up on a stage!” said Nan with a shudder.

    Lucy eyed her bosom consideringly. “You has the figure for it. –The men like somethink as they can see, not the size of a flea’s belly-button,” she explained.

    Nan’s cheeks flamed in spite of herself. “I see.”

    “Lucy, my angel, that was not in the best of taste,” said Mr Brentwood, serving her with a huge portion of cold pork pie.

    “No, but it be true, though. –Neat ankle, too: you’d do. Han hoo shing?” she added thickly through the pie.

    ”Er—can I sing?” said Nan, a trifle limply. “Well, no, I tend rather to hoot, I theenk ees the English word!” she admitted, laughing a little.

    Miss Fisher swallowed loudly. “Pity.—’Ere: don’t you go for to give them two none of the pie, Mr B., if you please!” she cried shrilly. “They don’t gotta get up on stage and work their bums orf till past midnight!”

    Mr Brentwood desisted, but shook his head reprovingly at her. Mr Brownloe and Mr Whittaker watched sadly as the pie was distributed to the players.

    “Have some chicken, Lady B.,” urged Mrs Storey.

    Nan refused chicken, and also hot whipp’d potato, but allowed Mr Brentwood to help her to a small meat savoury. The young men were also allowed to eat these, and to partake of a fine ham. Miss Truitt, meanwhile, though looking very mournful about it, had embarked on the oysters. After a little Lucy rose and unceremoniously removed them from under her nose. Constant was making a good meal, too. Perhaps it was her dinner, decided Nan.

    The feast also included hot sausages, which the players took unto themselves, three pairs of roast pigs’ ears which Mr Brentwood noted he would hesitate to offer Lady Benedict, forthwith serving himself and Mrs Storey with three ears each, and a green salad of which no-one partook very much. A selection of small cakes accompanied this spread and Nan thought that that was it, then, and more than enough, too; but no: there then appeared three plates of lemon curd tartlets, which must have been to Miss Truitt’s taste, for she ate a full dozen of them, a pale pink blancmanger, which Mrs Storey confessed she could never resist, thereupon proving the truth of her words, a great black fruit-cake, as rich and oozing as Mr Brentwood’s very voice, and an immense cheese. Mr Brentwood appeared thrilled by this last: for he exclaimed: “Ah!” And plunged a knife into it immediately. “Hah!” he then said.

    “Pa filled it with port like what you said, sir,” whispered Constant timidly. “Is it acceptable?”

    “Ver’ shep’ble indeed,” he said through it, nodding.

    Liquid refreshment was not neglected, either: Nan and Constant appreciated the tea, but Mrs Storey, though partaking liberally of this harmless beverage, also refreshed herself with several large glassfuls of Madeira. Miss Truitt at first took only tea but after allowing Mr Brentwood to give her a glass of claret, appeared to develop a taste for it. Mr Brentwood initially confined himself to the claret but later condescended, upon Mrs Storey’s urging him to give his opinion of the Madeira, to try it: it was pronounced “Very fine” and disappeared with remarkable rapidity. The cheese, of course, had to be accompanied by more port; as there was brandy as well, by the end of the meal all the gentlemen were somewhat flushed. So also were Miss Fisher and Mrs Pippa Storey. And Miss Truitt, though generally remaining pale, had a round patch of red on each cheek.

    At first the food and drink occupied the company’s attention to the exclusion of all else. As appetites became satisfied, however—and as the Madeira and claret flowed—a more funning mood began to prevail. Miss Lucy Fisher in particular distinguished herself by feeding both young gentleman by hand: first with oysters, which she merely tipped into their mouths, and later with lemon curd tartlets, the which became a sticky and to say truth, for the onlooker, a somewhat embarrassing business. Though, Nan saw, looking at her out of the corner of her eye, little Constant Fishe seemed to accept the whole thing as perfectly natural. There had. perhaps, been some justice in Mr Bobby Amory’s and Mrs Urqhart’s warnings.

    Nuts, raisins and dishes of small cakes and comfits completed the meal: laughing, Miss Fisher forced a little cake into the protesting Mr Whittaker’s mouth. “Ow!” she squeaked, going off in a gale of laughter as he apparently bit her finger.

    “Kiss it better?” he offered with a very naughty look.

    She let out a shriek of laughter. “Ain’t he a one?” She approached a rosy-tipped finger to the young man’s lips.

    Since “Whittikins” was a little further round the circle of chairs and sofas from Nan, who to say truth had herself consumed two large glasses of Madeira that she now felt she should not, she had a good view of the young man’s evident excitation as he closed his lips on that naughty finger. Flushing up, she looked away, shaken to find her blood suddenly racing in her veins.

    “Pretty lad, ain’t he?” said Mrs Pippa Storey on a dry note from her chair next the sofa.

    “Eendeed,” said Nan faintly.

    Mrs Storey eyed Mr Whittaker hungrily. “Talkin’ of digits, he could offer me his—pardon!—digit whenever he liked.” She patted herself on her chest. “Pardon, again.”

    “Lulu” Brownloe had been scraping out the cream bowl, as if he had been twelve years old rather than—well, perhaps twenty: he could not be more. Now he suddenly scrambled over to Nan’s side, and dropped on one knee before her. “You could feed me a cakey, angelic one,” he suggested plaintively, opening his mouth.

    “Shove off, do!” choked Mrs Storey helplessly. “Looks like a unfledged chick, don’t he, dear?”

    He did not look precisely that—no.

    Lucy looked round and gave an explosive giggle. “Lick the cream orf his lip, dear!”

    Nan went very red. The blond young man looked up at her expectantly.

    “Give him this, p’raps he will go away,” said Mrs Storey, forcing an almond into Nan’s hand.

    “Yes, go on, Lady B.!” urged Lucy, giggling madly. “Ow, I say, Whittikins, don’t bite, you naughty boy! –Give him a nut, dear. What’s a h’almond, atween friends?”

    Nan perceived that both actresses were needling her. Not perhaps entirely maliciously, but— She could hardly extricate herself without creating an unpleasant scene: Mr Brownloe was closely wedged between her and the tea table. “Here,” she said feebly, holding the nut out.

    The young man closed his lips very softly on it.

    Nan’s bosom heaved: she snatched her hand back.

    “Good, were it?” said Mrs Storey lazily.

    “I think you must know eet was,” said Nan steadily. “You had best try eet: give heem the next one yourself.”

    Mrs Storey laughed, patted her knee tolerantly, and said: “You’ll do me, lovey! He ain’t to my taste: never could abide a fair man; never mind, come here, Lulu, me love: show us what you’re made of.”

    Grinning, Lulu shifted position, affording both Nan and Mrs Storey an excellent view of what he was made of, and allowed Mrs Storey to feed him with almonds.

    Mr Whittaker then rose and inserted himself beside Lucy at the end of the sofa she and Nan were sharing.

    “None of that, Whittikins,” said Mr Brentwood in an indulgent tone. He himself was leaning back in a large chair, not apparently taking very much notice of what was going on. “She’s got a performance tonight, you know.”

    Lucy and Whittikins whispered together and then she got up and, with a very impertinent expression on her pretty round face, walked over to plump herself down on Mr Brentwood’s knee.

    “Now you can show me what you’re made of, Mr Brentwood!” she said with a giggle.

    “Him! Get away with you!” cried Mrs Storey loudly. “He would not remember where to put it if he had it, dear!”

    “She would not know, I do assure you,” said Mr Brentwood portentously. He got an arm around Lucy: Nan saw his large fingers tighten on her pale pink velvet, silver-frogged breast.

    Lucy shrieked. “Here!” she cried, wriggling upon his knee. “I do believe ’e’s got somethink here, after all, Pippa!”

    Mrs Storey merely snorted and advised Lulu to pour her a drop of the port. Lulu obligingly poured both himself and her very generous drops, and they returned to their former occupations, the young man now kneeling up much closer, very flushed indeed, and Mrs Storey audibly breathing hard each time her fingers met his lips.

    Nan edged cautiously down the sofa away from the pair of them.

    “That’s better, isn’t it?” said Whittikins softly.

    She jumped: he had been at the far end of the sofa with his eyes closed, and she had not thought he was even aware of her edging away from the vicinity of the embarrassing pair.

    “I say, ma’am,” he said in a lowered voice, “I think our little hostess is nearly asleep.”

    Nan nodded, biting her lip: she had already seen that for herself. And in the chair next to the nodding Constant’s, Miss Truitt was frankly snoring, her bonnet askew.

    “Well, this will not do for you, Lady Benedict,” said Whittikins, suddenly decisive. “If you will allow me, I shall be happy to—” He looked at Lucy, shrieking, giggling and wriggling upon Mr Brentwood’s knee: Mr Brentwood’s impassive face indicated he had not noticed she was there, but his hand had not ceased to palpate her breast. “Firstly, to apologise sincerely for this whole afternoon, and secondly, to escort you home,” he ended in a low voice.

    Nan looked at him doubtfully, but he appeared to be sincere.

    “Vairy well, sir. Thank you vairy much,” she said shakily.

    He rose, bowed very properly, offered her his arm, and led her out.

    “Oh, Lord, you have only a barouche,” he discovered. “Will you be warm enough, Lady Benedict?”

    Nan looked into his pleasant, anxious face and decided he was rather sweet, really, and very little different from Mendoza or his twin brothers.

    “You are vairy kind! I shall be perfectly warm, for I have many rugs weeth me.”

    “Good. Allow me,” he said gravely, handing her up.

    She settled herself comfortably, Whittikins got in beside her, she settled the fur-lined rugs round them, he resettled them, making sure the warmest and fluffiest was pulled up under her chin, and they set off with the hood up.

    It was warm and cosy and very, very private under the rugs; that and the slow, lulling motion of the carriage induced a languorous mood, where nothing outside their tiny enclosed world within the hood seemed real. It did not seem the time for polite conversation; Nan was silent, without feeling in the least awkward; Whittikins did not speak, either.

    After quite some time she turned her head to find that he had leant his head back, and removed his hat. He smiled into her eyes, but still said nothing.

    “Thank you so much,” she said in a low voice.

    “I did nothing. I wish it had been a raging lion, or some such, and not merely a raging actress or two,” he murmured.

    The carriage moved slowly on. Now and then their eyes met and he smiled at her, but still said nothing…

    Under the fur rugs Whittikins’s hand touched hers. Nan swallowed and was incapable of speech. His hand crept over hers: his was bare. He slid his finger in at the opening of her glove. Nan licked her lips. Eventually she turned her head and gave him a pleading look.

    Under the rug the young man’s hand slid onto her thigh. He squeezed it softly through the fabric of her pelisse.

    “No; you should not,” whispered Nan.

    His thigh pressed tightly against hers, but he did not speak. After a few moments his hand slid under the pelisse and onto the silk of her gown. Suddenly he leaned over and buried his face in her neck. One hand fumbled with the pelisse, finally managing to unfasten it: he buried his face in the silk bosom of her gown.

    “Oh—” sighed Nan on a breath that was half a groan.

    Under the rugs his hand slid under the silk of her gown, over the top of the stocking, over the skin of her thigh... “Nice,” he whispered.

    “Mm!” gasped Nan.

    “Pull rug up?” he said in a muffled voice.

    She pulled the rug up over him, so that only his brown curls were visible, and hugged him to her tightly, rug and all. Suddenly she moaned a little.

    “Ssh,” said Whittikins into her bosom.

    “Yes,” she whispered shakily, clutching him. They were both still for an instant.

    “The coachman ees vairy deaf,” she murmured.

    “Ideal!” he said on the ghost of a laugh.

    “Yes. Thees ees vairy good,” said Nan muzzily. “I mean vairy naughty,” she amended weakly.

    “Mmm...” he agreed, stroking her.

    Oh, Whittikins! ...Naughty. ...Dreadful.

    Suddenly he bit her, right through the silk. She squeaked, gasped, clutched him convulsively, and pulsed furiously. Oh... Whittikins!

    “Drefful,” she said in a muffled voice.

    “Mm,” said Whittikins into her bosom. “Love me. Take off your glove.”

    Nan obeyed. The young man shuddered and shook, and finally, with a great gasp, jerked violently against her hand.

    They were both very still, breathing gently together in the warmth of the rugs, for what seemed like a long time.

    Finally he raised his head, smiled a little sheepishly and whispered: “I suppose you will say, we should not have.”

    “Yes,” whispered Nan shakily. “Eet was vairy naughty.”

    “Naughty but harmless,” he murmured.

    She hesitated. “Yes, I truly theenk so,” she whispered, “but—but none of—of my acquaintance would ever agree.”

    “Nor would any of mine, except perhaps the actresses.”

    She bit her lip. After a painful moment or two she said: “I see. You and she— She told you to, deed she not?”

    Whittikins was very flushed. “Not exactly. At the least... Well, she said she wagered you would not.”

    “You are vairy horrid indeed, but I suppose eet ees my own stupeed fault for—for buh-being unable tuh-to—to resist!” said Nan in a high voice, her eyes filling with tears.

    Whittikins took her hand firmly. “I could not resist, either. The more so since... since I could see you wanted me,” he said in a low voice.

    “Oh! Thees ees too dreadful!”

    “‘Drefful’,” he said with a twisted little smile that suddenly made him look twice his years. “Well, in a way, yes. But not in the way you think. Lucy Fisher is what is known as a teaze. She—um—derives no enjoyment from, in fact is not interested in, the actual act.”

    Nan looked at him in bewilderment.

    “No, not even in what we just did,” he murmured.

    “That’s eempossible,” she said faintly.

    “No. The sort of thing that amuses Lucy is to tease a fellow to the point of desperation, and then—uh—refuse him,” he said, swallowing.

    Nan stared.

    “Truly,” he said, nodding. “She was trying it on old Brentwood this afternoon. But he’s a wily old fox, not likely to let himself be entrapped by the likes of her.”

    “I theenk I see.”

    “Mm. And—and watching the effect on you when she was teasing me and encouraging Lulu Brownloe was another way of—of enjoying herself,” he said in a strangled voice.

    Nan thought it over. “Good gracious. –So why do you continue to see her, Whittikins?” she ventured shyly.

    He went very red and bit his lip. “My name is Paul; I—I wish you would use it. Er—Brownloe and I have a wager on, as to who will be the first to—er—afford her the more usual sort of enjoyment. We are both coming equal last, at the moment.”

    Nan thought it over. “The poor girl,” she said slowly.

    Paul Whittaker smiled. He picked up her gloved hand and kissed the little patch of flesh in the opening of the glove where he had earlier excited her. “Yes,” he said.

    “Whi—Paul, you know so vairy much,” said Nan in a trembling voice.

    “I started very young,” said Paul with a laugh in his voice.

    “Yes. How—how old are you?” croaked Nan.

    He looked up, smiling. “Eighteen. And me mother don’t know what I’m up to, ma’am: no.”

    Nan gasped, and collapsed in weak laughter.

    “That’s better,” he said, grinning, and squeezing her hand.

    “Paul,” said Nan unsteadily, as she peeped out and realised, though at the moment the carriage seemed caught in a snarl of drays, that they could not be far from the house: “that was vairy naughty, and we must not—not—” Her voice shook.

    “Not go any further than that: no, I realise that,” he said. “Not while you are still a widow, at all events.”

    After an astounded moment Nan snatched her hand away. “That was not what I meant!”

    “And you think I am totally corrupt,” he noted. “Well, I ain’t, ma’am. But it was not so drefful, was it?”

    “No,” said Nan, biting her lip. “But I—I don’t know what came over me!”

    “Yes, you do,” said Paul Whittaker steadily. “The same as what comes over all of us.”

    She gulped. “Neither of my husbands was young,” she said painfully at last. “I  deed not even theenk I could be attracted to a vairy young man.”

    “I see,” said Paul Whittaker in a shaken voice. “Er—well, I should not have given in, either.” He took her hand again.

    “No,” said Nan desolately.

    “But you are so lovely. –I don’t know your name,” he said in a low voice.

    “Nan,” said Nan sadly.

    “Nan.” He held her hand to his mouth again. “If I promise to be very, very good and never to—to presume on the acquaintance and—and to go no further than that, would you let— Might I buh-be your little friend? Could we sometimes be together like this, all nice and cosy?”

    Nan looked at him doubtfully. His blue eyes had filled with tears, and he looked back at her pleadingly.

    Biting her lip, she pulled her hand away. “You must know eet ees impossible. What eef—eef people found out?”

    “They would not find out from me.”

    “No,” she said, swallowing. “Eet—eet was lovely, and... But eet was not the sort of theeng that—that one can repeat.”

    “It was!” he said, very flushed. “It is! Please!”

    “I am so vairy sorry: but no,” she whispered. Her hands trembled.

    “Could I not be your little friend? If I promise just to do—nice little things?”

    A tear slid down Nan’s cheek. “No.”

    Whittikins sat back against the upholstery.

    Nan looked at him fearfully: what if he should turn spiteful, or angry? For after all, she did not know him at all, and under the pretty looks he might be like anything. Really horrid, if he was the sort of boy who hung around actresses... But he did not look horrid, or spiteful, or any of those things: only as desolate as she felt herself. A tear trickled out of one blue eye and ran down his still rounded, youthful cheek.

    “You could hold my hand,” said Nan timidly.

    Silently Whittikins took her hand under the rug and held it very tight the rest of the way home.

    “You done WHAT?” screamed Mrs Urqhart.

    Of course Nan had not meant to breathe a word to her. But somehow, after she had crept upstairs on the excuse of wishing to rest before dinner, fallen into what she now realized was a half-drunken sleep—that Madeira must have been very strong—and had woken to find her kind hostess looking down at her in concern, she had poured out the whole story to her. Now she burst into a storm of sobs and threw herself face down against her pillows.

    “Aye, well,” said Betsy Urqhart limply, sinking down on the edge of the bed.

    Eventually Nan sat up, sniffing and gulping. “I had best go back to Bath.”

    “Rats. What is a Whittikins, when all is said and done?”

    Nan goggled at her.

    “When I was around your age,” said Mrs Urqhart with a slight sniff, “I been and gorn and done something even sillier. Acos I weren’t married, let alone widdered, and I didn’t have not hardly a clue. Well, not hardly. Apart from the odd kiss and cuddle. It were when I were out in Calcutta, only afore I had met my Pumps, bless him. Uncle Shillabeer had got me invited to a officers’ dance. Uncle’s gout is playing him up that night and so he says as I had better go with his friend and neighbour, a Mr Hunter. Mr Hunter were in the Company, dear, not an officer.”

    “I know,” said Nan, nodding: “The East India Company.”

    “Aye, out of course you knows: John Company.”

    “Yes: my dear John used to call eet that,” said Nan, blowing her nose.

    “Well, Mr Hunter, he were a man in his forties, very respectable. Had a wife only she were back in England: he had tried bringing her out, only it hadn’t answered. Him and Uncle Shillabeer use to play chess together every Sunday afternoon on the side verandah: I can see ‘em now. Anyroad, off we goes, and the only difference is that tonight there be two of us in the carriage, not three, like usual, for we customary give him a ride with us.” She sighed. “Then we get to the dance and it is very much the usual thing: not enough girls, lots of hot young boys in their tight uniforms... Oh, well. S’pose I was no better nor worse than any girl there: we didn’t waltz back in them days, me love, it were all country dances, but we did an amount of hand-squeezing like you wouldn’t believe, and I let the usual three or four take me into a little side room. They all kissed me and the blond boy got his hand in me bodice, and it were awful nice: his face were as red as nothing. He gets my hand on his satin breeches, you know: only then I says as it had better stop, and we goes back to the ballroom.” She sighed gustily.

    “Yes,” said Nan, looking at her in some awe.

    “Then comes the supper dance and a tall great major—dashed if I can remember his name, neither—takes me off for that, and then into the supper, and Mr Hunter and an older lady with a pie-faced daughter she is throwin’ at the officers, they all join us and it is all the usual thing. After the supper Mr Hunter goes off to play cards with a few of the older men, and the Major takes me back for another dance. Then somehow I lets him take me into the side room. First he kisses me, and that is fine and dandy. Then he gets his hand in me bodice like that pretty young blond boy done and it were not half good and I were ready for that, y’see. Only then I find he’s a-starting to undo me laces! ‘Here, hold on!’ says I; and he laughs and eases the laces and afore I know what he is at, he has eased me right out of me corset! None of ’em ever got quite that far afore, me love. S’pose I should have slapped his handsome face for him, only I goes all quivery at the knees. Then he starts in to suck one! Couldn’t believe me eyes, never did see a grown man do that before!”

    “No,” said Nan faintly, going very red.

    “Anyroad, I gets over me surprise pretty soon and starts to feel all funny down below—you know.”—Nan nodded, biting her lip.—“Aye. He knows it, of course, the rogue, and it’s up with me skirt and his hand up there! Well! I lets out a shriek like a banshee! I sort of knew a man might do that—only it’s different when they actual do it, ain’t it, deary?”

    Nan nodded numbly.

    “Aye,” said Mrs Urqhart with another gusty sigh. “Well, in two seconds flat Mr Hunter is the room, red as a turkey-cock, and the Major’s hand is out of there pretty damn’ quick. So I says I give him more encouragement than what I meant. And fortunate none of the nobs ain’t come in with Mr Hunter, only old Mr Shreckley what worked under him for the Company. The Major apologises all over the show and takes himself orf. So Mr Hunter says to me: ‘I think we had best get you home,’ and I says ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Hunter,’ and off we goes to the carriage.”

    “That was not so vairy bad, dear Mrs Urqhart,” ventured Nan. “Many girls do the same sort of theeng. And as you say, he took advantage of you.”

    “No!” she said scornfully. “Not that!”

    Nan stared.

    “Wait,” said Mrs Urqhart, holding up a warning hand. “That were only how it started. You think over how yours started today, deary.”

    Nan looked at her in some bewilderment, frowning a little.

    “We gets into the carriage and Mr Hunter asks me if I is all shook up and I admits I is, some. And he says, shall we go for a quiet drive on out to this blamed temple what we sometimes went to for picknicks, and I says that would be nice, thinkin’ I will have time to compose meself before I has to meet Uncle’s eye, and thinking, too, maybe I can persuade Mr Hunter not to breathe a word. We rolls along steadily enough, and pretty soon I sniffs and says to him that that syce what is driving is smoking bhang again and Uncle won’t half have the hide off him.”

    “Oh, dear.”

    “Aye. And Mr Hunter says they will do it, and he do not condemn it total, for it be a soothing habit, but not on duty, out of course. And has I ever tried it?”

    “What?” croaked Nan.

    “Aye. Out of course I had not, never been near the stuff. I manage to croak no, of course not. And he laughs, and brings out a little pouch and makes himself a little pipe of it to the manner born!”

    “Help,” said Nan.

    “Aye, you may well say so,” she said drily. “I was downright thrilled when he says to go on, and this will be our secret. Well, I coughs like the Devil at first but soon gets the hang of it. After a while I begins to feel all happy and peaceful—which is what the dratted stuff does to you, if you is lucky. And I hums a bit, and asks him for more only he says that is enough. I’m so happy I don’t really care. Then he says in a low voice was he right in thinking that Major Whatsit had ’is hand up me skirts? I says aye, and waits in fear and trembling for him to shout at me, or some such. Though why I thought he would do that—for you never met a milder creature! Sort of a sad look, he had to him, poor Mr Hunter. Only guess what he ups and says?”

    Nan swallowed. “I own, I cannot. Was eet—was eet something rude?”

    “Not exact. He says: ‘Did he scratch?’ ‘What?’ says I, thinkin’ I had not heard aright. And Mr Hunter says, true as I sit here: ‘I hope he did not scratch your delicate little parts with his great finger, Betsy my dear’!”

    “Help!” gasped Nan, bolt upright, goggling.

    “Oh, I never even hollered Help then, ninny that I were. Though that syce wouldn’ta been of no help, and we had almost reached the temple and there weren’t nothing nor nobody around, not so much as a pi dog. I gulps a bit but manages to say no, he did not scratch. Then he says, ‘Did ’is finger go right in?’ At first I think he is thinkin’ of me virtue, and I knows that don’t mean I ain’t a virgin no more, so I says: ‘Yes, but do not worry, Mr Hunter, I am still a virgin.’ And he puts his hand on me knee and says, kind of groaning: ‘Yes, I am sure you is, dear little girl.’”

    “Oh, dear,” said Nan faintly.

    “Mm. Round about that time I starts to get the feeling that maybe Mr Hunter ain’t as green as he is cabbage-lookin’, in the first instance; and in the second instance maybe he ain’t as past it as I had always thought an elderly gent of forty-five just naturally was; and in the third instance, which is worse than all, maybe it ain’t half bad, having his hand there on me knee!”

    “Oh, Mrs Urqhart,” said Nan with great sympathy.

    Mrs Urqhart sighed. “Aye, there is something about a man with a sad look on him... He leaves his hand there for what seems like an age, and I’m beginning to feel right hot and bothered, and finally I says in a squeak: ‘Mr Hunter, your hand maybe didn’t ought to be on my knee.’ And he ups and say: ‘Would it were where his was, my love.’ At which I trembles like the ninny what I am, and says, would you believe it, ‘Yes.’ Females! When the urge be upon us, there ain’t nothing so silly as your average young female!”

    “Yes,” said Nan, nodding hard. “That ees so exactly what I— Deed he?”

    Mrs Urqhart smiled a little and patted her hand. “Yes: he were pretty much a normal feller, were the melancholic Mr Hunter. He gives a sort of gasp, and I can see he is shaking like a leaf, and out of the corner of me eye I can see his is the size of yer average vegetable marrow, and I wants like crazy all on a sudden to see it out: you know? And I never felt that strong about a man’s tool in me life before! Though I have since. And I put me hand on it, must have been mad. So he kisses me like crazy and gets his hand down me bodice, and then up me skirts, and believe me, Nan, though I has had it every which way since, that were one of the nicest. He were still shaking like a leaf but right gentle with it. He coulda gone and put it in after, for all I’da cared, but he don’t, just gets me to do him by hand. –That were a surprise, too, he thrashed around like fury: thought he was havin’ an apoplexy.” She shook her head. “I was convinced I was in love with him for a full three months after that. But he had a bit of sense: got on out of it, went on a tour round the District.” She sighed. “When he come back it was like it never happened. Never even gave me the eye. Oh, well. The fancy for him wore off, after a bit.”

    “Yes,” said Nan, smiling a little. “Of course.”

    Mrs Urqhart patted her hand. “So, you see? You ain’t the only girl what went and done something blamed foolish acos it were too nice to stop. –This Whittikins, he sounds harmless enough,” she added cautiously. “If he did not try to bluster, in the end, and never tried to force you at all—didn’t, did he?”—Nan shook her head.—“No. The good ones don’t. They knows, you see.”

    “Mm,” said Nan, biting her lip hard. “He certainly...”

    “Aye. Young though he were. Well, Mr Hunter certainly knowed, too. Old though he were.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I see,” said Nan dazedly. “You had not seriously considered an older man before, and I had not seriously considered a younger one!”

    “Exact. We was both caught out. What with that and the warm night and the atmosphere of all that dancing and all them bodies in the crush and them tight uniforms—”

    “Yes... Oh, good gracious, yes! You were surrounded by an atmosphere of—of eager young men, and I was surrounded by vairy much the same sort of theeng, een Mr Fishe’s house. Eet seemed as eef... Eet was all around me,” she said in a low voice, “and at first I thought I was but looking on... And by the time I realised I was een eet also, eet was too late.”

    “Aye. Bet they had a fire goin’, too.”

    “Well, yes,” she said limply. “Miss Truitt and Constant went to sleep by eet.”

    “I can see it...” Mrs Urqhart could see rather more than she thought Nan realised. Not only about Nan herself, but about some of the relationships that might very well exist—yes, might very well exist—amongst certain members of that afternoon’s company. None of them, when you came to think of it, right down mutually exclusive.

    “What ees eet?” said Nan fearfully, watching her face.

    “Nothing. You had best not go there again, me love. Even if he don’t let on to them actresses—which I don’t say as he will!” she said quickly: “well, it won’t do. Very loose atmosphere.”

    “A vairy loose atmosphere which I apparently cannot resist,” said Nan with tears in her eyes.

    “Well, you has learnt now, me love. Keep away.”

    “Yes,” said Nan, biting her lip. “I shall.”

    Mrs Urqhart said no more. She thought Nan had learned a lesson: certainly about the dangers of unsuitable company in overheated rooms, pretty boys with naughty eyes, and jaunts alone with the same in closed-up carriages under fur rugs with two big glasses of Madeira in your veins.

    And she did, also, think that Nan had learned something about herself. But as to the further dangers of London town... Well, she would keep a right strict eye on her, if it did mean foregoing her afternoon nap. And, thank goodness, Mrs Stewart would soon be here with the other girls. But these were not cures; far from it. What they needed to find was a strong hand what would appeal, and be able to manage her. What a body would think there must be, in a city the size of London. …Mustn’t there?