Nan's Pickle

22

Nan’s Pickle

    Nan waited, but Colonel Vane did not come near her. She did not see him at any parties. Well, the House was sitting, perhaps he— But he did not appear in the Park, either. Three full days crept by.

    In desperation she decided to send him a note, asking him to call. If only she had been in her own house, it would have been so simple! But here it was not so easy. She was not at all sure that the servants would not immediately report so shocking a move on the part of a young lady guest to Mrs Urqhart. She fell back on the amiable Albert, crossing her fingers that his amiability would extend to not telling of her. It did appear to; but the note did no good: Colonel Vane did not respond. Nan got the footman alone and interrogated him, but he was quite sure he had found the correct address. Clearly the Colonel was deliberately avoiding her.

    If she spoke to General Sir Francis Kernohan, it might very well make matters worse: she did not think her kind elderly admirer liked Colonel Vane, and she was almost sure that Colonel Vane did not like him. And it would be perfectly dreadful if, should she tell him the whole story, the elderly gentleman decided it was up to him, rather than the Colonel, to teach Prince Pom-Pom the lesson he so richly deserved. And the same went for Dom—even more so: he had already indicated considerable disgust with the fat old prince.

    Could she tell Mrs Urqhart the whole thing and beg her to call on her behalf? Well... But she had no faith that that energetic lady would have any effect on the hard-faced Colonel. On almost any other man under the sun—yes. But not on Colonel Vane. And there was the added consideration that she had already caused dear Mrs Urqhart, who was not a young woman, after all, far too much upset. No, she had got herself into this stupid pickle, and she had best get herself out of it!

    Enlist her Cousin Keywes’s help? Nan could scarce forbear to shudder at the mere idea: he already thought she was immodest and not a respectable English lady: if she asked him to take a gentleman an urgent message—! No. Tell him the whole? Horrors, no: that would be a thousand times worse. He would be unutterably shocked, on the one hand, and on the other would probably react very much as Dom would.

    There was nothing else for it. Nan thought out her plan of attack very carefully, and then put it into action.

    The three younger girls had gone out in the barouche, escorted by Dom and Mr Charleson, and chaperoned by Mrs Stewart. Mr Amory had taken Cherry off in his dashing high-perch phaeton—minus, at the gentleman’s insistence, Pug Chalfont. Mrs Urqhart was in the downstairs salon with her feet up on a sofa, muttering to herself about its not having been Noël who had volunteered for escort duty.

    “I theenk I shall take a leetle walk weeth Johnny,” she said airily.

    Mrs Urqhart yawned. “Aye, well, don’t wear ’is little legs out, me lovey. –Hoy, and take Pug C., he ain’t hardly had his legs stretched at all today: that William of Tim’s is a dead loss, only takes ’im acrosst the square and back.”

    Pug Chalfont’s company was very definitely not part of Nan’s plan. But to refuse would without any doubt whatsoever put the sharp old lady on the alert.

    “Vairy well, Pug shall come!” She bent to kiss her. “I shall not be vairy long. Eef we go a leetle far, we shall return een a hackney coach.”

    “Aye, well, then, take Albert with you: young widders with little lads and pugs didn’t ought to take them jobbin’ carriages alone.” Mrs Urqhart yawned again.

    Of course it was entirely part of Nan’s plan to take Albert. With a twinge of guilt she nodded obediently, smiled sunnily, and took herself off to change.

    It was a pleasant May day, but not particularly warm. Nan had a dashing new pelisse: a deep crimson, the tight bosom daringly braided and frogged in black. Somewhat after the fashion of a hussar’s uniform, yes; though there was no-one in Mrs Urqhart’s house who would guess that it was directly inspired by Miss Lucy Fisher’s pink outfit. There was a matching crimson silk bonnet, trimmed with curling crimson ostrich tips. A striking—and very extravagantly expensive—fluffy feather muff completed the delightful outfit. She got into it, not asking herself why she was assuming it when her purpose was to call on one of the ugliest men in London.

    Johnny was too little to be anything but thrilled when, once they were two blocks away from the house, Mamma got into a hackney carriage. Albert she simply bullied. And Pug, similarly, was pulled into the carriage willy-nilly.

    “Albert, are you sure thees ees the address?” she said in astonishment as, after driving for some considerable time, and encountering many vehicles calculated to thrill Master Edwards’s sensibilities, such as a dray laden with great barrels, a donkey-cart, an immense stage with passengers on the roof and in the rumble, and a very small tilbury containing a very large man, they at last pulled in before a shabby house in a street of shabby houses.

    Albert was sure. There was a Mr Breckinridge what owned the house, who had assured him that Colonel Vane’s rooms was there, my Lady, and he had spoken to a Mr Poulter, what was Colonel Vane’s what you might call manservant, my Lady.

    “Ye-es. ‘What you might call’ manservant, Albert?” she echoed uncertainly, wondering if it was just the man’s dialect.

    “’E h’ain’t a true gentleman’s gentleman, my Lady, you see. Not like Mr Murchison.”

    “Er—no?”

    “No. Very common type, ’e be, if I may say so, my Lady.”

    “Oh.”

    Albert sniffed slightly. “One eye.”

    Nan’s jaw dropped.

    “’E claims as ’ow he lost it a-fightin’ at Colonel Vane’s side in Spain, my Lady.”

    “Oh, I see! Perhaps he was the Colonel’s batman, then, do you theenk?”

    Albert sniffed again. “More like a common soldier, I should say.”

     “See a soldier!” cried Johnny.

    “Yes. At all events, we shall vairy likely see a man weeth one eye who was once a soldier. Albert, eef we get out, weell the driver wait?”

    Albert looked dubious. “You can’t never trust these fellows, my Lady. Ten to one he’ll kick up if we doesn’t pay him, and then if we does he’ll be orf like lightnin’, without a-waiting to see if we wants to go back. Considerink the neighbourhood, you see. Beggin’ your pardon, my Lady.”

    That was more or less what Nan had suspected. “You had best stay weeth the coach, then.”

    “I want to get out!” cried Johnny.

    “Yes, vairy well, my angel.”

    “Pug, too!”

    “Um—well, eet cannot seegnify, and a man who minds a leetle pug dog—” Nan broke off, flushing. “Yes, Pug may come, Johnny. Please wait here, Albert.”

    Albert let down the steps for her but said firmly as he helped her out: “My Lady, begging your pardon, but I think Madam would say as I didn’t ought to let you go into the ’ouse alone.”

    “But I am not alone, you seelly, I have Johnny and Pug! I shall call eef I need you, but I am quite, quite sure I shall not: Colonel Vane is known all over London as the most honourable of gentlemen.”

    “Aye, I knows that, only it ain’t right,” he said glumly.

    “But we do not weesh to be stranded here weethout a coach! I shall not be long.” Grasping Johnny’s hand firmly in her right, and Pug’s leash firmly in her left, she went up to the front door. Albert stayed by the carriage, dithering.

    The door was opened by a small, skinny, freckled girl, of perhaps seven or eight years of age, dressed in a rusty black garment and a crumpled, grimy apron.

    “May I see Colonel Vane, please?” said Nan politely.

    The child eyed her suspiciously. “’E don’t see no ladies.”

    “But we have called especially!” said Nan, smiling at her. “Could you perhaps take heem a message? Ask heem eef he weell see us?”

    “I saw a waggon with big barrels!” said Johnny suddenly.

    The little girl replied scornfully: “I’ve seen ’undreds of waggons with barrels, there ain’t nuffink wonderful in that!”

    Nan was wondering what on earth to do next: the child had opened the door only a crack—though it was sufficient to let a mingled odour of frying onions and the memories of long-cooked cabbages escape—and she could hardly force her way in; but at this point a woman’s voice screeched something from the hinterland and the child screeched back: “It’s a lady and a boy and a dog for the Colonel, Ma! I telled ’em as ’e don’t never see no ladies!”

    Suddenly the door opened wide and a bony, freckled woman, dressed as was the little girl, with the addition of a tightly-tied kerchief on her head, stood there glaring.

    “Good morning,” said Nan politely. “I have called to see Colonel Vane.”

    The woman sniffed, and looked her up and down. “Colonel Vane, is it?”

    “She don’t ’alf talk funny, Ma!” hissed the child.

    “I can ’ear that: she’ll be a forringer, Clara Vane.”

    Nan’s heart did something very peculiar in her breast: she stared unbelievingly at the woman.

    “So what’s your business with the Colonel?”

    “I merely weesh to speak weeth heem, eef eet should be convenient for heem,” she faltered. Clara Vane? No, it was impossible: not the Colonel and this raw-boned creature from the lower classes!

    “I could ask Mr B., Ma!” suggested the child, jumping.

    “Right, you could. Nip orf and get ’im, then, Clara Vane.”

    She had said Clara Vane: Nan’s heart sank right into her smart little half-boots and stayed there.

    “I need to speak to Colonel Vane about—about a matter touching hees personal safety,” she said in a trembling voice.

    “Do you, indeed, me girl? Well, you can wait until Mr B. comes, ’e knows what’s what, does Mr B.”

    There was a short pause. Nan looked at her miserably. Johnny pulled at her hand, possibly wondering why they did not go into the house to see the one-eyed soldier, and Pug pulled at the lead, panting.

    “Forring, then, are yer?” said the woman.

    “Yes. I was born een Portugal,” said Nan faintly.

    “Portygal, is it? Ho, well, don’t you imagine as you can come chasin’ the poor Colonel after all these years, me girl!”

     “What? No!” gasped Nan, turning crimson.

    “’Ere, this brat can’t be— ’Ow old are yer, ducky?” she said cunningly to Johnny.

    Beaming, Johnny replied proudly: “I’m five! I had my birthday! I got lots of presents!”

    “Five,” said the woman, visibly sagging. “Then there ain’t no way ’e can be ’is, and if I was you, young madam, I’d take meself orf quiet-like, and thank yer lucky stars the Colonel don’t set the Runners after yer!”

    The stunned Nan replied dazedly: “I am not trying to claim that Johnny ees Colonel Vane’s son. And—and you are meestaken about who I am.”

    “Who are you, then, me girl?” said a voice from the dark hallway.

    “Mr B. ’E’ll settle your ’ash for yer, girl!” said the woman with relief. “Claims to be one o’ them Portygees, and no better than what she should be, Mr B.!”

    “Don’t look like it, no,” he agreed judiciously. “Come on, me girl, what’s your business with the Colonel?”

    Presumably this was Mr Breckinridge. He was not at all the sort of person Nan had expected the owner of a house containing a gentleman’s chambers to be, but then the neighbourhood was not the sort of neighbourhood where gentlemen usually had their chambers.

    Mr Breckinridge was very short. He was certainly not a dwarf, but considerably shorter than Nan herself; and did not reach even the shoulder of the bony woman who must, dreadful though the thought was, be Mrs Vane, or at least have some sort of honorary claim to that title. As if in compensation for the lack of vertical inches, however, Mr Breckinridge was very broad indeed. Not fat: it appeared to be solid muscle. Nan had no doubt that he would have been capable of hurling herself, her son, her friend’s pug dog and Mrs Urqhart’s footman all bodily from his house, had he so desired. With one bulging arm, very like. His arms did bulge in their respectable black coat: it gave the impression that it had been designed for a much slimmer man, it so strained and stretched over his shoulders and chest. Fastening it by one button was probably a mistake: the button was obviously under tremendous pressure. Below and above the button stretches of horizontally striped waistcoat, red and white, were displayed, and above them again, about his spanking clean, upstanding collar he wore a brightly striped silk kerchief: green and yellow. His breeches were a very bright tan and his small Hessian boots gleamed as brightly as any that might be glimpsed on the strut down Bond Street. And his unremarkable brown hair was cut in a stern Brutus. He presented, indeed, a most respectable figure. If an astonishing one.

    “Please,” said Nan, fumbling for a card: “could you give the Colonel thees and—and tell heem that I must see heem, touching a matter of hees—hees personal safety?”

    The bony woman sniffed loudly, as Mr Breckinridge read the card dubiously, his lips moving silently. “What’s it say, Mr B.?”

    Mr Breckinridge replied slowly: “Ten to one what it says is a pack of lies. What I’ll do, see, I’ll ’ave a word with Mr Poulter, ’cos any lady what is a lady don’t get around London town a-calling on unattached gents in their rooms!”

    The woman crossed her arms on her scrawny chest and leant in the doorway, eyeing Nan sardonically. “You said it, Mr B.! –’Oose is ’e, then?” she added to Nan as Mr B. disappeared.

    “What? Oh: Johnny’s father was my first husband,” said Nan limply.

    She sniffed.

    “Please—I can see you are only trying to protect Colonel Vane—but please let me see heem!” said Nan, her eyes filling with tears.

    “It ain’t up to me, it’s up to Mr B. and Mr Poulter.” she replied pleasedly.

    “Buh-but—eef I were to plead weeth you, as a—a fellow woman and a mother?”

    The woman looked her up and down and said nothing.

    “Please! Colonel Vane’s life may be een danger!”

    “Ho, might it, just? Well, you can tell your story to Mr B. and Mr Poulter. –And don’t think you can put one over on ’im, acos ’e were out in that there Portygal and knows all the tricks!” she ended on a triumphant note.

    “Deed he—deed he lose hees eye een the Peninsula, then, ma’am?”

    “What do you know about ’is eye?” she retorted suspiciously,

    “Only what my footman told me.”

    “Albert’s seen the man with one eye!” cried Johnny loudly, jumping a little, and pulling on his mother’s hand. “Mamma, I want to see the man with one eye!”

    “Your footman!” said the woman with a scornful laugh. “Pull the other one!”

    Nan sank into miserable silence. Johnny tugged at her hand and began to whine. Perhaps in sympathy, perhaps out of simple boredom, Pug Chalfont tugged at the other hand, also whining.

    Then there was a thunderous noise of feet on the stairs. “Come on, come on, let’s ’ave a look at ’er!” said a growly voice from the dark hallway. If Nan’s heart could have sunk any further it would have done so: yet another person not predisposed in her favour.

    “Ooh!” cried Johnny, shrinking against his mother’s crimson skirts, as the one-eyed man appeared. Perhaps in sympathy, Pug Chalfont gave a shrill bark.

    Nan took a deep breath. “I apprehend you are Colonel Vane’s man? I weesh to see heem on an urgent matter.”

    The newcomer was of medium height, burly, though not so broad in the shoulders as the short Mr Breckinridge, and, whether habitually or merely as an effect of the early hour, very blue and bristly round the jowl. The black patch over his right eye was the most striking point of his appearance, certainly, but almost as striking was the fact that through the short, dark hair ran a pure white streak, directly above the eye-patch. Apart from that he was not remarkable, being clad in a rough, collarless homespun shirt, a faded and tattered waistcoat that had probably originally sported pale blue and pale fawn stripes—vertical, so perhaps not handed on from Mr Breckinridge—and an exceeding battered pair of buckskins, laboriously patched by an unskilled hand. The shirtsleeves were rolled up and his forearms were very muscular and very hairy.

    “Urgent, hey?” he said, as Mr Breckinridge waved the card under his squashed nose. “What’s to say,” he said slowly, “that she ain’t some servant as this Lady Benedick’s sent orf, and her and that footman feller is in cahoots?”

    “To do what?” cried Nan indignantly.

    The one-eyed Mr Poulter sucked his teeth. “Blackmail, like as not.”

    “Blackmail Colonel Vane?” cried Nan in astonishment. “Do not be absurd: he ees known as the most honourable man een London!”

    “Thank you for that kind testimonial, Lady Benedict,” said a quiet, deep voice from the dark hallway.

    Nan jumped, and gasped; Pug Chalfont let out a positive fusillade of shrill yelps.

    Colonel Vane emerged onto the step. He was in a dark blue brocaded dressing-gown, and his chin was even bluer than his man’s. And his iron-grey hair, which he normally wore very much brushed back, was in wild disarray.

    “You must excuse my kind protectors, Lady Benedict,” he added politely. “—Mr Breckinridge, you may stop panicking; I know this lady, and she is who she claims to be.”

    “Then what is she doink, sir, a-callink on you at yer rooms?” cried the bony woman shrilly.

    “I think she possibly has an urgent message for me. In short, it is in some sort an emergency,” he said calmly.

    “Yes, eendeed eet ees an emergency, and why deed you not answer my note?” cried the overwrought Nan loudly.

    “Because I did not choose to, Lady Benedict,” he said with a mocking look. “But we—” He glanced at the pavement, which was now adorned not only by the fidgeting Albert, but also by a fat woman with a basket on her arm, a thinner woman, also with a basket, two small, ragged boys, and a man in workman’s clothes who did not immediately seem to have any work to go to. “We could perhaps discuss it indoors; that is, if you trust yourself to the chaperonage of my manservant?”

    “I do not need any chaperone at all, thank you, and there ees no need to mock me,” said Nan grimly. “And eef you had had the sense to answer my note I should not have had to come at all! And I weell certainly step inside.”

    “Good. –Mrs Arkwright, perhaps you could bring us up a pot of coffee and something to eat?”

    “I was gonna bring you up yer breakfast direct, Colonel, only Mr Poulter, ’e said as you was asleep, acos that there ’Ouse, it sat till nigh on five.”

    “I’m five,” said Johnny suddenly to the Colonel.

    Colonel Vane’s dark face creased into a smile. Surprisingly, Johnny did not either shrink or shriek. “Are you, indeed? You are quite a big boy, then!”

    “Yes. –That man has only got one eye.” he said in a lowered voice.

    “Indeed he has. He was wounded in a big battle and lost the other eye.”

    Suddenly the little girl inserted herself into the doorway at the Colonel’s side. “’E ain’t got nuffink under the patch,” she said to Johnny.

    “That is correct. No eye at all. Would you like to come upstairs with me?” said the Colonel, holding out his hand.

    Nan began anxiously: “Sir, he may not—”

    But Johnny had taken the Colonel’s hand and was saying confidentially: “I saw a waggon with lots of big barrels.”

    “Did you, indeed? That was on the way here, was it? I wonder what was in the barrels? Ale, perhaps?”

    “What’s ale?”

    Their two backs disappeared, the Colonel’s rather stooped: his deep voice could be heard explaining tranquilly what ale was.

    Nan took a deep breath and stepped forward.

    “Miss!” hissed a hoarse little voice.

    “Yes?” she said weakly to Clara Vane.

    “Can I bring the little dog?”

    “I tell yer what, if it ain’t ’ouse-trained you can clear up its messes yerself, lady or no lady!” said Mrs Arkwright bitterly.

    “He ees house-trained, he weell behave perfectly. But eef I let you take hees lead, please hold eet vairy tight, Clara.”

    She nodded eagerly.

    Nan resigned the lead to her, and Clara Vane led Pug proudly inside.

    Nan looked at Mrs Arkwright and bit her lip. “Please believe that I weesh only to help heem,” she said in a low voice.

    Mrs Arkwright sniffed, shrugged, and went inside.

    Limply Nan stepped in.

    The Colonel’s rooms were on the first floor; in fact he appeared to occupy the whole of the first floor, though as the house was very narrow this was not saying much. Colonel Vane was already seated, with Johnny on his knee, in a clean but shabby room which looked as if it had been furnished from oddments.

    “Please sit down,” he said courteously. “Not on the settle, I would advise.”

    The hard oaken settle before the fireplace had no cushions on it. Nan sank onto the chair opposite his. “Colonel Vane—”

    “We can discuss it in a moment,” he murmured. “Johnny tells me you have had a very exciting drive here.”

    “We saw many vehicles,” she said limply.

    “So I gather. Er—dare I ask—not that they are not both most welcome, of course—why you brought the little boy and the dog, Lady Benedict? I grant you that the three of you make an affecting picture. Though I would not have chosen blue for the pug’s harness, myself,” he murmured, eying Pug Chalfont and Clara Vane on the faded rug before his hearth.

    “He ees not even my dog! And I had to bring heem, otherwise—” Nan broke off.

    “Mm?” he said mildly, putting his dark, harsh-featured face against Johnny’s little satiny cheek.

    Nan’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She looked away, blinking. “I pretended to Mrs Urqhart that I was taking Johnny for a walk.”

    “We came in a carriage!” said the little boy excitedly.

    “Indeed you did,” agreed the Colonel, hugging him gently.

    “Um—and Mrs Urqhart suggested I walk Pug because he needed exercise,” said Nan, chewing on her lip.

    “I see. It’s her dog, then.”

    “He’s Cherry’s dog!” piped Johnny. “His name’s Pug Chalfont!”

    “Pug Chalfont? What a fine name for a dog.”

    “Yes, and he can fight!”

    “Um—yes: he got eento a fight een the Park,” said Nan feebly. “Miss Chalfont ees another of Mrs Urqhart’s guests, and—and she could not take Pug thees morning, for she had driven out weeth Mr Amory een hees phaeton.”

    The Colonel smiled slowly. “In that damned ridiculous high-perch thing?”

    Nan nodded mutely.

    He laughed. “Lord, no: he could not possibly have a pug in that! Not at all the picture he would wish to present to the world!”

    “No,” said Nan limply, wishing she dared to correct this to “present to the microcosm.”

    He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye and said: “So is this one yours, ma’am, or only borrowed also?”

    “What? Yes, of course!” she gasped.

    “Mm. –That is your Mamma, is it?” said the Colonel solemnly to the little boy.

    “Mamma,” agreed Johnny.

    “I suppose that proves eet!” she said loudly and crossly.

    “It must do: he is too young to sustain a fabrication.”

    Nan looked at him indignantly but could think of no reply.

    “I think there will be something to eat and drink in a moment. Er—I should warn you, Mrs Arkwright’s notion of a breakfast will not—er—be ladylike enough for you, I fear, Lady Benedict.” He eyed the outfit. “Or at the least, not ladylike enough for that.”—Nan’s jaw dropped: she gaped at him.—“Forgive me, but I cannot help wondering why you have favoured our little neighbourhood with it. Though Mrs Minns and Mrs Porter, whom you may have noticed in the street, will certainly have been gratified to catch a glimpse of it.”

    “She’s got a ’uge muff, too, Colonel!” hissed the little girl.

    “She certainly has, Clara Vane: in fact very nearly the hugest muff l ever laid eyes on.”

    “I deed not know whereabouts you lived!” cried Nan loudly, almost at the end of her tether.

    “Then how did you get here, ma’am?”

    Nan glared impotently.

    “Oh, you may speak freely in front of Clara Vane,” he assured her.

    “You must know I would not say what I am theenking about—about your address, een front of her!”

    The Colonel smiled a little. “I’m glad to hear it: few so-called ladies would refrain. And I beg your pardon for criticizing your appearance. You look delightful.”

    “Delightful but eenappropriate: yes,” she said through her teeth. “Pray belabour the point weeth a bludgeon, sir: after all some of us are not as bright as you and, indeed, mere foreigners at that!”

    Colonel Vane threw back his head and laughed delightedly. “I wondered—if that—particular point—of Mrs A.’s—would succeed in hitting—home!” he gasped.

    “Did you hear eet all?” cried Nan.

    “Certainly. –Oh, dear. Forgive me.” He produced a large handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing-gown and blew his nose loudly. “Yes, certainly: my bedroom overlooks the street.”

    Her bosom swelled indignantly. “You let me stand on the doorstep like an eediot?”

    “Er—well, at the first I thought I was dreaming, ma’am. And I pulled the pillow over my head and willed it to go on a little, it being such a delicious fantasy.”

    She turned bright red and glared speechlessly.

    Colonel Vane’s hard grey eyes twinkled but he continued placidly: “And then when I at last realized it could not be a dream after all, and you were actually favouring my doorstep with your presence, I—er—realized I was not clad.”

    “Ma says it ain’t decent, the way ’e sleeps, and a gentleman didn’t oughter,” explained Clara Vane, somewhat superfluously.

    “No,” agreed Nan in a strangled voice.

    Colonel Vane’s lips twitched. “So I stumbled out of bed and hunted for my dressing-gown. Then I could not find my footwear.”

    Nan looked feebly at his feet. He was wearing boots. “Oh.”

    “I do possess a pair of slippers, but I could not, in the excitement of the moment, locate them,” he murmured.

    Nan very nearly—very nearly—suggested he should have looked under Mrs Arkwright’s bed for them. She gulped, and was silent.

    Colonel Vane began to talk gently to Johnny, encouraging him to get onto the rug and play with Clara and Pug.

    Nan sat there mumchance.

    Mrs Arkwright’s notion of a breakfast was certainly not ladylike. Nor was it, as Nan had expected, anything like the English breakfasts that Hugo had been used to consume. It would not be until some time later that she would realize that of course, Colonel Vane was not able to afford the huge barons of beef that had been ordered up in the Benedict household without anyone’s thinking twice about the matter. The breakfast was in two—not exactly courses, for they were served together—sections, perhaps. Hot and cold. The cold section consisted chiefly of a goodly portion of a pig’s cheek.

    “Splendid!” said the Colonel, rubbing his hands over it.

    Warning him not to waste none of it on Clara Vane, and wiping her hands on her grimy apron, Mrs Arkwright exited with a last resentful glare at Nan. Solemnly the Colonel carved the pig’s cheek. It was accompanied by some unpleasant-looking greyish things which after a moment or two Nan realized were cold boiled potatoes. Ugh.

    The two children and the pug were by this time all on the rug, and all looking up at him hopefully. He divided the pig’s cheek into two equal portions. Then as an afterthought he set aside a small portion. “I don’t believe in overfeeding dogs, Lady Benedict, but I think Clara Vane would wish to give him something.”

    “Can I?” cried Clara Vane.

    It was not clear whether or no she was addressing Nan, but the Colonel did not speak. “Yes,” she said weakly. “Just a leetle. He ees vairy greedy.”

    Clara Vane was allowed to offer Pug a small portion of pig’s cheek on a sheet of yesterday’s newspaper. She stood over him, breathing even more stertorously than he, as he ate it. When the pug had finished she gave a great sigh, sat down on the rug, and began to eat her own portion of cold pig’s cheek.

    “None for Johnny,” said Nan faintly. “We have breakfasted.”

    “Mm.” The Colonel inspected the contents of a large jug. “Porter?”

    After a moment Nan realized this was a suggestion addressed to her. “No!” she gasped.

    He poured some of the porter into a battered pewter tankard. Then he began to eat cold boiled potatoes and cold pig’s cheek from the tray on his knee. Johnny came and stood by him hopefully, not saying anything, however.

    Eventually Nan said with a sigh: “Colonel Vane, eef—eef eet would not deprive you, I theenk Johnny may have a mouthful of potato. –Aloo, Johnny baba,” she explained. “You want aloo?”

    “Aloo!” he agreed, nodding eagerly.

    Colonel Vane offered him a piece of potato on a fork. Johnny opened his mouth eagerly. Nan looked away, biting her lip, her eyes again filling with tears. Oh, dear: Colonel Vane at home was not in the least like she had expected. Well—infuriating, and she had not expected that, at all. But so good with the children! ...Clara Vane must be his: the child obviously adored him. Oh, God, why had she come? ...No, that was silly: she had had to come, and as soon as he had had his breakfast, she would sort it out. And go. And never see him again.

    The hot section of the meal consisted of a pot of coffee, which the Colonel had set carefully in his hearth, and thin wedges of a crisp-looking substance which Nan at first thought was merely toasted bread. But they did not look like any breads she had seen before.

    “What are they, sir?” she said shyly as he placed four wedges on a griddle and held them over the fire. “Ees eet an English speciality?”

    “Oh: I suppose you have never seen them before. It is an English dish, yes, but not from this region: Mrs Arkwright is a Londoner, but her late husband came from Yorkshire, in the north of England, and this is a receet she had off him. These are oatcakes, Lady Benedict, made from an oatmeal dough. They are cooked and then dried out on a very slow fire—Ma puts them beside the fire, does she not, Clara Vane?” he said, smiling.

    Clara Vane nodded solemnly. “They dry out good, like that, Miss.”

    “Yes,” agreed the Colonel. “Once they are dry they will keep for months—though in this house they are not often given the chance, for we are all fond of oatcakes, aren’t we, Clara Vane?”

    She nodded and grinned. “Ma makes ’em for Miss McInnery, Miss, only ’alf the time, Mr Poulter, ‘e comes along and grabs the lot!”

    “Yes: Miss McInnery lives above us, and Poulter is convinced it is the object of her existence to deprive us of our rightful nourishment,” said the Colonel solemnly.

    “I see,” gulped Nan.

    “But since she stands barely as high as my elbow, and looks as if a puff of wind would blow her away, his claims are difficult to substantiate.”

    “She don’t eat much,” clarified Clara.

    “I see. –Oh!” said Nan, smiling a little: I theenk I do see: Poulter is jealous of Mrs Arkwright’s paying attention to the other tenant, ees that eet?”

    “To any of the other tenants,” agreed the Colonel solemnly.

    “Mr Grooby and Mr Saver, they’re big eaters,” contributed Clara.

    “As I was saying,” said Colonel Vane, hastily rescuing his oatcakes from the fire: “once they are crisp and dry they will last for a very long time, if allowed! They can be eaten cold but they are best heated through. And rich folk put butter on ’em, eh, Clara Vane?”

    “Yes. Ma says if Mr Grooby and Mr Saver ’ud corf up what they owes we could all ’ave butter,” she noted mournfully.

    “Oh, dear,” said Nan weakly.

    The Colonel moved the coffee a little nearer the fire and said cheerfully: “Never mind, they are good as they are! –Lady Benedict, pray try one.”

    “No, I could not deprive you!” she gasped.

    “Go on, Miss, we got stacks: Ma, she made a ’uge great batch the other day,” urged Clara.

    “Yes, even Miss McInnery got her share!” said the Colonel, chuckling. “I shall divide this one—though they tend to crumble—and you and Johnny may each taste a piece.”

    “And Pug Chalfont!” cried Johnny.

    “No, pugs definitely do not like oatcake,” said the Colonel firmly.

    They all tried oatcake except Pug, and Nan accepted a cup of coffee, feeling by this time that she needed it. Though if he could not afford butter undoubtedly she should not be drinking up his coffee. Clara did not have a cup, but she was permitted a sip from the Colonel’s, kneeling up at his knee: she sipped very cautiously, gasped and grimaced, and declared with every appearance of mendacity: “’Licious!”

    “Elle ment, mais avouons-le: il ne s’agît qu’à moitié de l’orgeuil,” murmured the Colonel.

    “Alors, de quoi s’agît-il, Colonel?” replied Nan on a cross note.

    The dark face creased into a tender smile. “Mais—de l’amour,” he murmured.

    Nan’s face flamed: she nodded, and looked away.

    He eyed her a trifle mockingly, but said nothing more.

    Finally the repast was over, Mrs Arkwright reappeared, looking grim, and removed the tray, and the Colonel persuaded Clara, Johnny and Pug all to play in the next room—his bedroom: Nan saw that the man, Poulter, was in there, making the bed up.

    “Sans doute il va leur montrer son oeil—je veux dire, l’orbite,” said the Colonel calmly, closing the connecting door, “mais il ne voudrait pas le faire devant nous, par pudeur.”

    “Non,” agreed Nan feebly.

    “It’s all right, Lady Benedict, I don’t intend to continue to practise my elementary French.”

    She had to swallow. “Your French is not bad at all, Colonel Vane.”

    “I have a fair vocabulary but I have no ear for languages,” he replied simply.

    Nan had heard that for herself: she looked at him limply.

    Colonel Vane sat down. “Go on.”

    She swallowed. “You must be aware of why I have come to see you.”

    He rubbed his unshaven chin slowly. “I don’t know that I am.”

    “Of course you are!” she cried impatiently. “I have come to ask you to stop thees seelly duel weeth Prince Pom-Pom! –I mean Hees Highness Prince Friedrich,” she amended limply.

    “Son Altesse prefers the French form of his name.”

    “I do not care eef the horrid old creature prefers one to address heem een ancient Sanskreet, meanwhile placing one’s forehead to the floor and proceeding backwards!” shouted Nan.

    Colonel Vane’s shoulders shook but his face remained impassive.

    “Go on, LAUGH!” she shouted.

    He did smile, just a little, and said: “Do I understand that the cause of this visit is not, then, a concern for His Highness’ safety?”

    Nan’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

    “Well?”

    “No!” she gasped. “How could you theenk— Good Heavens, you knew I deed not want the creature’s gift! Yes, and you promised me you would not do anytheeng so seelly as get eento a fight! I theenk you must be mad!”

    He held up a hand. “Just let us take it calmly, Lady Benedict.”

    “CALMLY!” shouted Nan. “When Prince Pom-Pom ees about to run you through weeth a sword?”

    “He is not about to run me through with a sword. –Well, he’s a rotten fencer: not light enough on his feet,” he explained on an apologetic note. “But in any case it is to be pistols.”

    “That ees even more dangerous!” she gasped. “One shot can keell!”

    “Mm,” said Colonel Vane, eyeing her wryly. “True. Let me just get it clear, Lady Benedict. You do not particularly care if I kill Pom-Pom—er—with one shot?”

    “Of course I care, you seelly theeng,” said Nan with tears in her eyes. “You weell be utterly ruined; and there weell be nobody to protect you, for I know the Duke of Wellington has never forgiven you, and you are not even een the Army now,”—Colonel Vane did not betray his intense interest in the fact that Lady Benedict apparently knew so much of his history—“and they weell send you to prison and try you and vairy probably hang you!” A tear ran down her cheek and she dashed it angrily away, sniffing.

    “Don’t snuffle, doesn’t go with the red fluff on that bonnet,” he said, handing her his handkerchief. “Here.”

    Nan blew her nose crossly. “I am not crying! –And eet ees not red, you must have no eye for colour whatsoever!”

    “It ain’t green, is it?”

    “No!” she said in astonishment.

    “Well, I did not think I was colour-blind. But we had one young fellow in the regiment who could not tell the difference between red and green. Which was not so bad when all he had to distinguish between was our own fellows and the Rifle Brigade, but turned out pretty disastrous when it was the Frogs involved as well.”

    Nan just looked at him limply.

    “I would have said it was red,” he murmured.

    “Crimson, you seelly—” She broke off.

    “—‘theeng’,” he finished imperturbably.

    “I beg your pardon, Colonel Vane,” said Nan stiffly.

    “Not at all. I enjoyed it,” he explained.

    Nan took a very deep breath and did not speak.

    “Well, I’m glad you haven’t come here to beg me to preserve Pom-Pom’s worthless existence for its own sake,” he noted drily.

    After a moment she went very red. “No,” she said, looking at him pleadingly.

    Lewis looked back unemotionally, not betraying the fact that his heart was pounding painfully, and said: “I shall understand if what I am about to say makes you very angry. However, I would ask you to try to think before you speak. Is the main cause of your coming here today a desire to save me from prison and the rope, or a desire to save your own reputation, should the story of the duel get out?”

    She just stared at him.

    His dark cheeks flushed a little. When she had not spoken after several minutes had elapsed, and the sound of the children laughing could clearly be heard from the next room, he said: “Perhaps you did not understand me?”

    Nan’s jaw trembled. “I understood you. But I do not see how I can convince you that until thees moment I had never even thought of my reputation een connection weeth thees duel.”

    Colonel Vane’s fists clenched. He got up and went over to the window.

    She looked uncertainly at his straight back. After a moment she said: “I am sure that logic weell not weigh weeth you, eef—eef that ees what you have been theenking. But—but do you truly theenk a lady who was concerned above all to save her reputation would have come here today weethout even a veil over her face?”

    “Let alone in crimson with a ’uge muff and fluff on her bonnet,” said Lewis Vane in a strange voice, not turning his head.

    “Exactly,” said Nan grimly.

    He did not turn round. After quite some time she got up on legs that shook a little, and went up to him. “Weell you not give eet up?” she said in a trembling voice.

    Colonel Vane stared out of the window.

    “Colonel Amory says that the Prince weell accept an apology. Een fact he weell also apologize. Only you must apologize first.”

    “Mm.”

    “Please, dear sir!” said Nan huskily. She put her hand on his sleeve. “After all, eet ees the most absurd start, when all ees said and done—no? Can one take a person like Prince Pom-Pom seriously?”

    Lewis Vane fancied he heard in her voice that inner certainty of the pretty young woman who, genuinely concerned though she may be, is in no doubt she will have her own way in the end. His nostrils flared. He turned abruptly and took both her hands in his. Nan’s heart leapt: for an instant she believed, not only that she had convinced him, but that she had, quite simply, conquered him.

    Then he said: “You need not bother to charm me. I have no wish to join the ranks of Francis Kernohan, Henri-Louis de Bourbon, Bobby Amory and the other fribbles who hang round your skirts.”

    “I deed not mean—”

    “Of course you did; pretty women always do,” he said impatiently, releasing her hands. He walked over to the hearth.

    “Eef you deed not challenge Pom-Pom for me, then why deed you?” cried Nan angrily, very flushed.

    Colonel Vane leant one elbow on the mantelpiece. He eyed her mockingly. “Oh—let us say, largely because I lost my temper—and to a lesser degree, for a principle, ma’am.”

    The latter was precisely what Nan herself had said of the duel in the Peninsula that had ruined him: she had no doubt he had used the expression deliberately.

    “You are eensufferable!” she cried hotly.

    He returned drily: “Pom-Pom is of your mind.”

    “Thees duel ees the stupidest theeng ever! I do not weesh you to go through weeth eet!”

    “No. Well, I’m flattered that you don’t want me to end my days dancing on the end of a rope—what man would not be? But then, I think you must be aware that any man would be.”

    Nan blinked. Then she shouted: “NO!”

    Colonel Vane was about to speak, but the inner door opened and Poulter’s hoarse voice said: “Everyfink all right, sir?”

    “Yes, perfectly.”

    “No, eet ees not!” cried Nan hotly.

    “’E’s been and gorn and done somefink blamed stupid, ’asn’t ’e, me Lady?” said the man.

    “Yes,” said Nan, biting her lip. “Eendeed he has, Mr Poulter, and eef only you would help me to talk some sense eento heem—!”

    “No, well, trouble is, ’e won’t never listen to me. H’obstinate is ’is middle name, you might say, me Lady.”

    “Indeed you might,” he said unemotionally.

    “Colonel Vane, please, please do not go through weeth eet!”

    “You may rest assured that Pom-Pom could not hit a barn wall at a range of three feet.”

    “Lumme, don’t tell me ’e’s challenged someone!” gasped his henchman.

    “Yes, and eet’s so seelly, Mr Poulter, eet ees all over notheeng, and he weell not leesten to me! And the person that he has challenged ees a horrid old man who weell accept an apology!” cried Nan.

    “H’apology? ’Im?” croaked Poulter.

    Colonel Vane looked mockingly at her.

    “Miss—me Lady, I should say—we ’ad colonels and generals and lords and I dunno what, a-beggin’ of ’im not to, that other time, and would ’e listen to a one of ’em?”

    “I see. Then he weell certainly not leesten to just you and me,” she said, very pale.

    “No. –Look, she’s like a ghost: now see what you’ve been and gorn and done!” said the one-eyed man bitterly to his master. He came over to Nan’s side, put an arm tenderly round her waist, and helped her back to her chair. “There now, me Lady: you set a bit, I’ll fetch you a drop of brandy.”

    Nan caught at his rough sleeve. “I do not need brandy, thank you, Mr Poulter. Only please, tell heem he must not fight!”

    “I’ll tell ’im, only ’e won’t listen,” he said heavily. “Colonel, sir, couldn’t you give this one up? Acos if the lady ’erself don’t feel h’insulted— You don’t, do you?”

    “No, eendeed I do not!” said Nan firmly.

    “At the time, the lady did feel insulted, I think,” he murmured.

    “No! I thought eet was absurd! And the whole theeng ees absurd and rideeculous, and you are eempossible!” she cried, bursting into tears.

    “There: see?” said Mr Poulter aggrievedly to his master. He trod heavily across the room, opened a small cupboard and took out a bottle.

    “God, don’t waste that on a female, Poulter!” said the Colonel. Nan’s tears dried up out of sheer shock: she goggled at him.

    “Oh. No, well, you’re right, sir, she won’t know the difference.” Mr Poulter put it back and produced a squarer, blacker bottle.

    “A drop: and put it in the coffee, Poulter.”

    “Better in the porter, sir,” said the man, coming over to the fire.

    “No, I do not think she has ever tasted that: she is Portuguese, and they had nothing like it over there, do you recall?”

    Shuddering, Poulter replied: “That I do, Colonel, sir! Lord, ’arsh weren’t the word for that red stuff what them Portygees called wine!”

    “Yes. Some of the porto itself was not half good, of course.”

    The man licked his lips reminiscently, nodding and grinning, as he poured brandy into the coffee pot.

    “That’ll do,” said the Colonel mildly.

    “Eh? Oh. Well, we could finish it, sir!”

    “Mm.” Looking dry, the Colonel poured coffee into the two cups, shook the dregs of his porter out of the tankard, and poured the remaining coffee into that. “Sip this,” he said, handing a cup to Nan.

    She took it and sipped obediently.

    “Better?” he said, taking the empty cup from her.

    “Yes. I’m sorry. But eendeed, Colonel, you must see that you are not being sensible about thees.”

    “Of course I see it. But as I was saying, Pom-Pom could not hit a barn wall. And I shall delope—that means fire in the air, Lady Benedict. No-one will be hurt, honour will be satisfied, and you may—er—sleep easy. But I shall certainly not apologize to the unspeakable old—” He broke off, as Poulter coughed loudly. “Quite,” he said drily.

    “But there ees no essential difference between not shooting at heem and not fighting at all!” she said eagerly.

    “Pooh,” returned the Colonel mildly. “Poulter, nip downstairs, there’s a good fellow, and tell that witless-looking footman of Lady Benedict’s that she is ready to leave.”

    Nan went very red, but did not say in front of his man that she was not ready to leave.

    Poulter touched his forelock obediently, and stumped out. The Colonel held out his hand to assist Nan to rise.

    She got up, looking at him uncertainly. “I—I thought you were convinced of my good faith,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Well, I was,” he replied thoughtfully. “And I am still convinced that you came here in good faith. But that does not mean I am not also convinced that you came here in the belief you could wind me round your little finger.”

    “I deed NOT!” she shouted.

    “Ssh. Miss McInnery is upstairs doing her stitchery as we speak: we will shock her with all this shouting.”

    Clara Vane emerged from the bedroom, hugging Pug. “She listens.”

    “Er—well, yes,” murmured the Colonel, his lips twitching a little, as Lady Benedict looked uncertainly from the little girl to him. “Endless stitching all day long occupies the fingers but not always the mind. So she leaves her door open unless the weather be very cold: it enables her to participate in the life of the house.”

    Nan nodded weakly. “I see. So she ees a seamstress?”

    “Her preferred profession is that of mantua-maker to the offspring of the bourgeoisie and lesser gentry—certainly, ma’am.”

    She did not quite dare to ask what her less preferred profession might be.

    “She would greatly admire your little boy’s suit,” he added with a smile as Johnny came up to Clara’s side.

    “Yes: can I take ’im h’up, Miss?” asked Clara Vane eagerly.

    Nan looked helplessly at Colonel Vane.

    “She is harmless,” he murmured. “—Just for a minute, Clara Vane: to say hullo. But they are going directly. Give me the dog, just for a moment, and take Johnny’s hand tightly: that’s right. Now, take Pug Chalfont’s lead in your other hand, and don’t let go on the stairs, whatever you do.”

    “I’m all right, Colonel, sir!” she said aggrievedly. “I ain’t a brat, yer know!”

    “How old is she, sir?” asked Nan feebly as they exited.

    “Eight. She was born not very long after I came here.”

    Nan nodded, her mouth tight.

    “I hope it is all right?” he said awkwardly.

    “What? Oh! Yes, of course, eef your neighbour would like to see Johnny... I must ask,” she said limply: “I feel I shall explode eef I do not. What ees her other profession, sir?”

    “Mm? Oh. She is a shroud-maker, Lady Benedict,” he said, smiling a little.

    After a moment she admitted: “I can see that that sort of stitchery would be vairy monotonous, yes: just straight hems.”

    “Exactly,” said the Colonel solemnly.

    “So—so you have been living here for a while?”

    “Yes. I am made very comfortable. And though it may not appear so to you, it is a most respectable neighbourhood and Mr Breckinridge is an excellent landlord, and I am lucky to have him.”

    Nan nodded silently.

    “Mr Grooby and M. Savour,” said the Colonel with an ironic gleam in his eye, “also occupy a set of rooms on the second floor, but they are out during the day, being junior clerks at a bank in the City. The latter is the son of an émigré family.”

    “‘Mr Saver’,” said Nan feebly. “I see.”

    “Both most respectable persons also. Mr Venables has the second-floor front next Miss McInnery’s, and although he is one as keeps himself to himself I have no doubt he is also a most respectable man.”

    By now Nan was feeling she must scream should the word “respectable” pass his lips one more time, and she was very sure this was precisely what he meant her to feel. “He weell be the undertaker who commissions the shrouds,” she noted grimly.

    “No,” said the Colonel apologetically: “merely his chief assistant. The undertaker himself is a very warm man indeed, and owns a whole house, further up the street.”

    “Pray do not go on: I understand perfectly,” she returned grimly.

    The hard grey eyes twinkled: he continued smoothly: “The third floor is also respectable, though at first we had our doubts, one of the names being a foreign one.”—Nan had to swallow.—“On the one hand, Messrs Beamish and Robbio are senior clerks with solicitors of unblemished reputation. And opposite them, Mrs Catt is a respectable widow-woman who does a little sewing—no shrouds—and Mrs Wotton and her spinster daughters are also most worthy persons: Mrs Wotton and Miss Wotton being milliners and Miss Gertrude Wotton a buttonholer.”

    “A buttonholer,” said Nan grimly.

    “Mm: Miss Gertrude is not very bright but she is quite skilled with her fingers, and may accomplish simple tasks so long as she is not required to vary them. She is employed by a Mr Green, a tailor in the next street, as a buttonholer. And walks there and back most capably all by herself. I assure you her work is much appreciated: even Bobby Amory himself has admired a buttonhole on a coat which I had from Mr Green.”

    “Colonel Vane, I don’t believe one word of thees!” cried Nan, turning very red indeed.

    “’E ain’t lying, Miss,” said Clara Vane from the doorway.

    “Oh,” said Nan limply. “Wuh-well, eef you say eet ees true, Clara, then I believe you.”

    Colonel Vane’s shoulders shook silently, but all he said was: “Well, so you have met Miss McInnery, eh, Johnny?”

    “She gived me a dolly!” he cried, brandishing it.

    Nan rushed over to him in consternation. It was only a tiny rag doll, but very beautifully sewn indeed: a little Pierrot.

    “She makes them for her smaller customers,” said the Colonel.

    “I got four!” announced Clara.

    “Yes, Clara Vane has a set: a Pierrot and Pierrette, and a Harlequin and Columbine,” agreed the Colonel, putting his hand on her skinny shoulder.

    “Eet ees exquisite,” faltered Nan. “Eet was so kind of her, no, Johnny baba? I theenk I should run upstairs and thank her, Colonel.”

    He nodded. “It’s just at the head of the stairs: you can’t miss it: the room with the door ajar and a bow holding a notice.”

    Nan hurried out. The staircase was very dark and steep: she had to pause halfway up and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. The smell of stale cooked cabbage was now very noticeable. On the landing, she hesitated, then called: “Eet’s Johnny’s Mamma: may I come een, Miss McInnery?”

    “Yes, come straight in! We don’t stand on ceremony at Number 16!” cried a little sharp voice.

    Nan went in.

    She was horribly disconcerted: Miss McInnery was a tiny hunchback. Quite nimble, for she rose and bobbed, chattering volubly as she did so. But dreadfully crippled-looking. Nan thanked her for the doll, praised it quite genuinely, and admired some of Miss McInnery’s other work that was on display. The tiny crooked figure in the midst of its chattering got out of her the fact that she had two little girls in her charge as well as her own Johnny and Rosebud: somehow Nan found that she was promising to bring them all to let Miss McInnery make for them.

    “Well?” said Colonel Vane, as she came downstairs again.

    “I weesh I had known of her earlier: we have had a dress each for Mina and Amrita from a woman who was recommended by an acquaintance of Mrs Urqhart’s, but I am not vairy pleased weeth them. I shall bring all the children to Miss McInnery eenstead!”

    “Oh,” said the Colonel, a trifle limply. “Well, I’m very glad to hear it. She would be glad of the custom.”

    “Clara,” said Nan, “I wonder eef you would take Johnny downstairs? And Pug, but don’t let heem go, weell you? I weesh to say just a word to the Colonel, and then I shall come down, too. –Johnny baba, you go weeth Clara and find Albert: tell heem we are going home, all right? Mamma weell come vairy soon.”

    This appearing acceptable to Master Edwards, the children went out. Nan shut the door after them very firmly. She turned slowly, looking grim.

    “Lady Benedict—”

    “Why deed you not warn me?” she hissed.

    The Colonel’s jaw sagged. “Warn you? Of what?”

    “Leetle Miss McInnery!” hissed Nan fiercely, with tears in her eyes.

    “But— Oh, Lord, I’m truly sorry, Lady Benedict: we are so used to her, you see, at Number 16. Er—look, pray don’t feel obliged to give her work.”

    “Of course I shall give her work, her sewing ees the finest I have seen een England! But—” She broke off, her eyes full of angry tears.

    “Yes. Don’t be cross. I have known her nine years, now, so I had forgotten how—how very shaken I was when I first met her. But she is not unhappy, you know. And she has many friends: some of the children she made for twenty years ago regularly come to visit with their own children.”

    “Good,” said Nan, sniffing hard.

    Silently Colonel Vane gave her his handkerchief.

    She blew her nose hard, not looking at him. “I deed not offer to pay for the leetle doll—though eet must represent hours of work.”

    “Good; she would not have wished you to: it was a present.”

    Silently she gave him back his handkerchief, not looking at him.

    “I must thank you for coming,” he said stiffly.

    “Thank me! When you deed not leesten to a word I said?”

    He flushed darkly. “You mistake.”

    “What eef he hits you?” said Nan in a shaking voice.

    “He will not hit me. –And I shall have words with Richard Amory,” he said, scowling. “He had no right to speak to you.”

    “Pooh, of course he deed, he ees a sensible man, and he understands that eet was all my fault!”

    “It was not in the least your fault. –Come along, your little boy will be wondering where you are.” He put a hand under her elbow. Nan shook him off crossly and marched out.

    Colonel Vane followed slowly, looking thoughtful.

    To his mother’s relief, Johnny did not chatter going home, but leant into her side; gradually his eyes closed. Nan put her arm around him and held him tight. After some time she said crossly aloud: “He has Miss McInnery een the vairy house: why does he not spend some money on clothes for the child, eenstead of—of stupeed brandy?”

    Johnny muttered and stirred; Nan bit her lip, but he slept on. She leant her head back against the upholstery, careless of whether or not she was crushing the fetching bonnet, and sighed.

    Lewis Vane did not change his mind about meeting Pom-Pom. In fact after Lady Benedict’s visit he was more determined than ever to teach the vain old prince a lesson. He did not ask himself why this should be so. But he did spend a long time mulling over the visit. He was sure that her concern for his safety was genuine and sure, too, that she truly had not attempted to talk him out of the duel as a means of preserving her reputation. But he was also sure that she had worn the crimson outfit with the fluff in order to charm him, and that she had set out on the expedition with no real expectation that it would be a failure. Why this point should annoy him so much he did not precisely define. But he had a fair idea it had something to do with the fact that when he so much as cast a mental glance at the thought, the expression “lapdog” sprang involuntarily to mind. He did not think it had very much to do with the presence of the pug at Number 16 Lumb Street that morning.

    Well—she was lovely, she was charming and, as both her visit to his humble abode and her reaction to little Miss McInnery clearly proved, she had a caring heart. But... Lewis Vane thought of some of the other charming creatures he knew, and of the men who had what might generally have been considered the pleasure of being their husbands, and winced. There was no way in the world he himself could play that sort of complaisant rôle, so she was very much out if she imagined— But he did not truly think she did imagine. Or that she truly cared. If she did feel something, he was pretty sure it was on the level of the emotion that the little crippled seamstress aroused in her; and he had no notion of being the object of a pretty woman’s charity or pity.

    And then, there was also the point that any young woman with decent instincts would not care to have the death of a gentleman in a duel on her conscience: it was understandable that she should have tried to talk him out of it.

    He went over all the incidents of the encounter very carefully: not once, but many times; but did not come to any different conclusion.

    As to what impression she might have gone away with... She had been cross, yes; the usual reaction of a pretty creature who was used to getting her own way when thwarted. And shocked by the way he lived, yes. Pretty clearly she had concluded that Mrs Arkwright was his mistress and Clara Vane his daughter. Lewis shrugged. Over the years the inhabitants of Number 16 Lumb Street had become his very good friends: he had no intention of offering Lady Benedict any explanation or apology for them.