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“Well, he is the best,” agreed Miss Harris. “You were speaking of expense, Lady Carrados. Dimitri works out at about twenty-five shillings a head. But that’s everything. You do know where you are and he is good.”
“Twenty-five? Four hundred, there’ll be, I think. How much is that?”
“Five hundred pounds,” said Miss Harris calmly.
“Oh, dear, it is a lot, isn’t it? And then there’s the band. I do think we must have champagne at the buffet. It saves that endless procession to the supper-room which I always think is such a bore.”
“Champagne at the buffet,” said Miss Harris crisply. “That will mean thirty shillings a head, I’m afraid.”
“0h, how awful!”
“That makes Dimitri’s bill six hundred. But, of course, as I say, Lady Carrados, that will be every pe
Lady Carrados stared at her secretary without replying. For some reason Miss Harris felt as if she had made another faux pas. There was, she thought, such a very singular expression in her employer’s eyes.
“I should think a thousand pounds would cover the whole of the expenses, band and everything,” she added hurriedly.
“Yes, I see,” said Lady Carrados. “A thousand.”
There was a tap at the door and a voice called: “Do
“Come in, darling!”
A tall, dark girl carrying a pile of letters came into the room. Bridget was very like her mother but nobody would have thought of comparing her to the Sistine Mado
She returned Bridget’s punctilious “Good morning” and watched her kiss her mother.
“Darling Do
“Hullo, my darling,” said Lady Carrados, “here we are plotting away for all we’re worth. Miss Harris and I have decided on the eighth for your dance. Uncle Arthur writes that we may have his house on that date. That’s General Marsdon, Miss Harris. I explained, didn’t I, that he is lending us Marsdon House in Belgrave Square? Or did I?”
“Yes, thank you, Lady Carrados. I’ve got all that.”
“Of course you have.”
“It’s a mausoleum,” said Bridget, “but it’ll do. I’ve got a letter from Sarah Alleyn, Do
“Yes, thank you, Miss Carrados. I beg pardon,” said Miss Harris in some confusion, “I should have said, Miss O’Brien, shouldn’t I?”
“Help, yes! Don’t fall into that trap whatever you do,” cried Bridget. “Sorry, Do
“Ssh!” said Lady Carrados mildly. “Are those your letters?”
“Yes. All the invitations. I’ve put a black mark against the ones I really do jib at and all the rest will just have to be sorted out. Oh, and I’ve put a big Y on the ones I want specially not to miss. And—”
The door opened again and the photograph on the dressing-table limped into the room.
Sir Herbert Carrados was just a little too good to be true. He was tall and soldierly and good-looking. He had thin sandy hair, a large guardsman’s moustache, heavy eyebrows and rather foolish light eyes. You did not notice they were foolish because his eyebrows gave them a spurious fierceness. He was not, however, a stupid man but only a rather vain and pompous one. It was his pride that he looked like a soldier and not like a successful financier. During the Great War he had held down a staff appointment of bewildering unimportance which had kept him in Tunbridge Wells for the duration and which had not hampered his sound and at times brilliant activities in the City. He limped a little and used a stick. Most people took it as a matter of course that he had been wounded in the leg, and so he had — by a careless gamekeeper. He attended military reunions with the greatest assiduity and was about to stand for Parliament.
Bridget called him Bart, which he rather liked, but he occasionally surprised a look of irony in her eyes and that he did not at all enjoy.
This morning he had The Times under his arm and an expression of forbearance on his face. He kissed his wife, greeted Miss Harris with precisely the correct shade of cordiality, and raised his eyebrows at his stepdaughter.
“Good morning, Bridget. I thought you were still in bed.”
“Good morning, Bart,” said Bridget. “Why?”
“You were not at breakfast. Don’t you think perhaps it would be more considerate to the servants if you breakfasted before you started making plans?”
“I expect it would,” agreed Bridget and went as far as the door.
“What are your plans for today, darling?” continued Sir Herbert, smiling at his wife.
“Oh — everything. Bridget’s dance. Miss Harris and I are — are going into expense, Herbert.”
“Ah, yes?” murmured Sir Herbert. “I’m sure Miss Harris is a perfect dragon with figures. What’s the total, Miss Harris?”
“For the ball, Sir Herbert?” Miss Harris glanced at Lady Carrados who nodded a little nervously. “It’s about a thousand pounds.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Sir Herbert and let his eyeglass fall.
“You see, darling,” began his wife in a hurry, “it just won’t come down to less. Even with Arthur’s house. And if we have champagne at the buffet—”
“I ca
“If you mean Donald Potter,” said Bridget dangerously, “ I must—”
“Bridgie!” said her mother.
“You’re wandering from the point, Bridget,” said her stepfather.
“Me!”
“My point is,” said Sir Herbert with a martyred glance at his wife, “that the young people expect a great deal too much nowadays. Champagne at every table—”
“It’s not that—” began Bridget from the door.
“It’s only that it saves—” interrupted her mother.
“However,” continued Sir Herbert with an air of patient courtesy, “if you feel that you can afford to spend a thousand pounds on an evening, my dear—”
“But it isn’t all Do
“Bridget, darling,” said Lady Carrados, “breakfast.”
“Sorry, Do
Miss Harris wondered if she too had better go, but nobody seemed to remember she was in the room and she did not quite like to remind them of her presence by making a move. Lady Carrados with an odd mixture of nervousness and determination was talking rapidly.
“I know Paddy would have meant some of Bridgie’s money to be used for her coming out, Herbert. It isn’t as if—”
“My dear,” said Sir Herbert with an ineffable air of tactful reproach, and a glance at Miss Harris. “Of course. It’s entirely for you and Bridget to decide. Naturally. I wouldn’t dream of interfering. I’m just rather an old fool and like to give any help I can. Don’t pay any attention.”
Lady Carrados was saved the necessity of making any reply to this embarrassing speech by the entrance of the maid.
“Lord Robert Gospell has called, m’lady, and wonders if—”
“ ’Morning, Evelyn,” said an extraordinarily high-pitched voice outside the door. “I’ve come up. Do let me in.”
“Bunchy!” cried Lady Carrados in delight. “How lovely! Come in!” And Lord Robert Gospell, panting a little under the burden of an enormous bunch of daffodils, toddled into the room.