Patricia Brent, Spinster. Jenkins Herbert George

they received. Did God make people in His own image and then leave the rest to them? Was that where free will came in?

      " – lonely!"

      The word seemed to crash in upon her thoughts with explosive force. Someone had used it – whom she did not know, or in what relation. It brought her back to earth and Galvin House. "Lonely," that was at the root of her depression. She was an object of pity among her fellow-boarders. It was intolerable! She understood why girls "did things" to escape from such surroundings and such fox-pity.

      Had she been a domestic servant she could have hired a soldier, that is before the war. Had she been a typist or a shop-girl – well, there were the park and tubes and things where gallant youth approached fair maiden. No, she was just a girl who could not do these things, and in consequence became the pitied of the Miss Wangles and the Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythes of Bayswater.

      She was quite content to be manless, she did not like men, at least not the sort she had encountered. There were Boltons and Cordals in plenty. There were the "Haven't-we-met-before?" kind too, the hunters who seemed cheerfully to get out at the wrong station, or pay twopence on a bus for a penny fare in order to pursue some face that had attracted their roving eye.

      She sighed involuntarily at the ugliness of it all, this cheapening of the things worthy of reverence and respect. She looked across at Miss Sikkum, whose short skirts and floppy hats had involved her in many unconventional adventures that one glance at her face had corrected as if by magic. A back view of Miss Sikkum was deceptive.

      Suddenly Patricia made a resolve. Had she paused to think she would have seen the danger; but she was by nature impulsive, and the conversation she had overheard had angered and humiliated her.

      Her resolve synchronised with the arrival of the sweet stage. Turning to Mrs. Craske-Morton she remarked casually, "I shall not be in to dinner to-morrow night, Mrs. Morton."

      Mrs. Craske-Morton always liked her guests to tell her when they were not likely to be in to dinner. "It saves the servants laying an extra cover," she would explain. As a matter of fact it saved Mrs. Craske-Morton preparing for an extra mouth.

      If Patricia had hurled a bomb into the middle of the dining-table, she could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her simple remark that she was not dining at Galvin House on the morrow.

      Everybody stopped eating to stare at her. Miss Sikkum missed her aim with a trifle of apple charlotte, and spent the rest of the evening in endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue satin blouse, which in Brixton is known as "a Paris model." It was Miss Wangle who broke the silence.

      "How interesting," she said. "We shall quite miss you, Miss Brent. I suppose you are working late."

      The whole table waited for Patricia's response with breathless expectancy.

      "No!" she replied nonchalantly.

      "I know," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her even tones, and wagging an admonitory finger at her. "You're going to a revue, or a music-hall."

      "Or to sow her wild oats," added Mr. Bolton.

      Then some devil took possession of Patricia. She would give them something to talk about for the next month. They should have a shock.

      "No," she replied indifferently, attracting to herself the attention of the whole table by her deliberation. "No, I'm not going to a revue, a music-hall, or to sow my wild oats. As a matter of fact," she paused. They literally hung upon her words. "As a matter of fact I am dining with my fiancé."

      The effect was electrical. Miss Sikkum stopped dabbing the front of her Brixton "Paris model." Miss Wangle dropped her pince-nez on the edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. Mr. Cordal, a heavy man who seldom spoke, but enjoyed his food with noisy gusto, actually exclaimed, "What?" Almost without exception the others repeated his exclamation.

      "Your fiancé?" stuttered Miss Wangle.

      "But, dear Miss Brent," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, "you never told us that you were engaged."

      "Didn't I?" enquired Patricia indifferently.

      "And you don't wear a ring," interposed Miss Sikkum eagerly.

      "I hate badges of servitude," remarked Patricia with a laugh.

      "But an engagement ring," insinuated Miss Sikkum with a self-conscious giggle.

      "One is freer without a ring," replied Patricia.

      Miss Wangle's jaw dropped.

      "Marriages are – " she began.

      "Made in heaven. I know," broke in Patricia, "but you try wearing Turkish slippers in London, Miss Wangle, and you'll soon want to go back to the English boots. It's silly to make things in one place to be worn in another; they never fit."

      Mrs. Craske-Morton coughed portentously.

      "Really, Miss Brent," she exclaimed.

      Whenever conversation seemed likely to take an undesirable turn, or she foresaw a storm threatening, Mrs. Craske-Morton's "Really, Mr. So-and-so" invariably guided it back into a safe channel.

      "But do they?" persisted Patricia. "Can you, Mrs. Morton, seriously regard marriage in this country as a success? It's all because marriages are made in heaven without taking into consideration our climatic conditions."

      Miss Wangle had lost the power of speech. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was staring at Patricia as if she had been something strange and unclean upon which her eyes had never hitherto lighted. In the eyes of little Mrs. Hamilton, a delightfully French type of old lady, there was a gleam of amusement. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was the first to recover the power of speech.

      "Is your fiancé in the army?"

      "Yes," replied Patricia desperately. She had long since thrown over all caution.

      "Oh, tell us his name," giggled Miss Sikkum.

      "Brown," said Patricia.

      "Is his knapsack number 99?" enquired Mr. Bolton.

      "He doesn't wear one," said Patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself.

      "Oh, he's an officer, then," this from Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe.

      "Is he a first or a second lieutenant?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton.

      "Major," responded Patricia laconically.

      "What's he in?" was the next question.

      "West Loamshires."

      "What battalion?" enquired Miss Wangle, who had now regained the power of speech. "I have a cousin in the Fifth."

      "I am sure I can't remember," said Patricia, "I never could remember numbers."

      "Not remember the number of the battalion in which your fiancé is?" There was incredulous disapproval in Miss Wangle's voice.

      "No! I'm awfully sorry," replied Patricia, "I suppose it's very horrid of me; but I'll go upstairs and look it up if you like."

      "Oh please don't trouble," said Miss Wangle icily. "I remember the dear bishop once saying – "

      "And I suppose after dinner you'll go to a theatre," interrupted Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, for the first time in the memory of the oldest guest indifferent to the bishop and what he had said, thought, or done.

      "Oh, no, it's war time," said Patricia, "we shall just dine quietly at the Quadrant Grill-room."

      A meaning glance passed between Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe and Miss Wangle. Why she had fixed upon the Quadrant Grill-room Patricia could not have said.

      "And now," said Patricia, "I must run upstairs and see that my best bib and tucker are in proper condition to be worn before my fiancé. I'll tell him what you say about the ring. Good night, everybody, if we don't meet again."

      "Patricia Brent," admonished Patricia to her reflection in the looking-glass, as she brushed her hair that night, "you're a most unmitigated little liar. You've told those people the wickedest of wicked lies. You've engaged yourself to an unknown major in the British Army. You're going to dine with him to-morrow night, and heaven knows what will be the result of it all. A single lie leads to so many. Oh, Patricia, Patricia!"