Patricia Brent, Spinster. Jenkins Herbert George

rounded the glass screen a superintendent came up and enquired if she had a table. She heard a voice that seemed like and yet unlike her own answer, "Yes, thank you," and she passed on looking from right to left as if in search of someone, unconscious of the many glances cast in her direction.

      When about half-way up the long room, just past the bandstand, the terrible thought came to her of a possible humiliating retreat. What was she to do? Why was she there? What were her plans? She looked about her, hoping that she did not appear so frightened as she felt. She was conscious of the gaze of a man seated at a table a few yards off. He was fair and in khaki. That was all she knew. Yes, he was looking at her intently.

      "No, that table won't do! It is too near to the band." It was Miss Wangle's voice behind her. Without a moment's hesitation her sub-conscious self once more took possession of Patricia, and she marched straight up to the fair-haired man in khaki and in a voice loud enough for Miss Wangle and her party to hear cried:

      "Hullo! so here you are, I thought I should never find you." Then as he rose she murmured under her breath, "Please play up to me, I'm in an awful hole. I'll explain presently."

      Without a moment's hesitation the man replied, "You're very late. I waited for you a long time outside, then I gave you up."

      With a look of gratitude and a sigh of content, Patricia sank down into the chair a waiter had placed for her. If there had been no chair, she would have fallen to the floor, her legs refusing further to support her body. She was trembling all over. Miss Wangle had selected the next table. Patricia was conscious of hoping that somewhere in the next world Miss Wangle's sufferings would transcend those of Dives as a hundred to one.

      As she was pulling off her gloves her companion held a low-toned colloquy with the waiter. She stole a glance at him. What must he be thinking? How had he classified her? Her heart was pounding against her ribs as if determined to burst through.

      Suddenly she remembered that the others were watching and, leaning upon the table, she said:

      "Please pretend to be very pleased to see me. We must talk a lot. You know – you know – " then she turned aside in confusion; but with an effort she said, "You – you are supposed to be my fiancé, and you've just come back from France, and – and – Oh! what are you thinking of me? Please – please – " she broke off.

      Very gravely and with smiling eyes he replied, "I quite understand. Please don't worry. Something has happened, and if I can do anything to help, you have only to tell me. My name is Bowen, and I'm just back from France."

      "Are you a major?" enquired Patricia, to whom stars and crowns meant nothing.

      "I'm afraid I'm a lieutenant-colonel," he replied, "on the Staff."

      "Oh! what a pity," said Patricia, "I said you were a major."

      "Couldn't you say I've been promoted?"

      Patricia clapped her hands. "Oh! how splendid! Of course! You see I said that you were Major Brown, I can easily tell them that they misunderstood and that it was Major Bowen. They are such awful cats, and if they found out I should have to leave. You see that's some of them at the next table there. That's Miss Wangle with the lorgnettes and the other woman is Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, who is her echo, and the man is Mr. Bolton. He's nothing in particular."

      "I see," said Bowen.

      "And – and – of course you've got to pretend to be most awfully glad to see me. You see we haven't met for a long time and – and – we're engaged."

      "I quite understand," was the reply.

      Then suddenly Patricia caught his eye and saw the smile in it.

      "Oh, how dreadful!" she cried. "Of course you don't know anything about it. I'm talking like a schoolgirl. You see my name's Patricia, Patricia Brent," and then she plunged into the whole story, telling him frankly of her escapade. He was strangely easy to talk to.

      "And – and – " she concluded, "what do you think of me?"

      "I think I'd sooner not tell you just now," he smiled.

      "Is it as bad as that," she enquired.

      Then suddenly the smile faded from his face and he leaned across to her, saying:

      "Miss Brent – "

      "I'm afraid you must call me Patricia," she interrupted with a comical look, "in case they overhear. It seems rather sudden, doesn't it, and I shall have to call you – "

      "Peter," he said. He had nice eyes Patricia decided.

      "Er – er – Peter," she made a dash at the name.

      Bowen sat back in his chair and laughed. Miss Wangle fixed upon him a stare through her lorgnettes, not an unfavourable stare, she was greatly impressed by his rank and red tabs.

      After that the ice seemed broken and Patricia and her "fiancé" chatted merrily together, greatly impressing Patricia's fellow-boarders.

      Bowen was a good talker and a sympathetic listener and, above all, his attitude had in it that deference which put Patricia entirely at her ease. She told him all there was to tell about herself and he, in return, explained that he came of an army family, and had been sent out to France soon after Mons. He was then a captain in the Yeomanry. He was wounded, promoted, and later received the D.S.O. and M.C. He had now been brought back to England and attached to the General Staff.

      "Now I think you know all that is necessary to know about your fiancé," he had concluded.

      Patricia laughed. "Oh, by the way," she said, "you have never given me an engagement ring. Please don't forget that. They asked me where my ring was, and I told them I didn't care about rings, as they were badges of servitude. You see it is quite possible that Miss Wangle will come over to us presently. She's just that sort, and she might ask awkward questions, that is why I am telling you all about myself."

      "I'll remember," said Bowen.

      "I'm glad you're a D.S.O., though," she went on, half to herself, "that's sure to interest them, and it's nice to think you're more than a major. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe are most worldly-minded. Of course it would have been nicer had you been a field-marshal; but I suppose you couldn't be promoted from a major to a field-marshal in the course of a few days, could you?"

      "Well, it's not usual," he confessed.

      When the meal was over Bowen looked at his watch.

      "I'm afraid it's too late for a show, it's a quarter to ten."

      "A quarter to ten!" cried Patricia. "How the time has flown. I shall have to be going home."

      He noticed preparations for a move at the Wangle table.

      "Oh, please, don't hurry! Let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time."

      "Do you think I ought," enquired Patricia critically, her head on one side.

      "Well," replied Bowen, "I think that you might safely do so as we are engaged," and that settled it.

      They went upstairs, and it was a quarter to eleven before Patricia finally decided that she must make a move.

      "Do you know," she said as she rose, "I am afraid I have enjoyed this most awfully; but oh! to-morrow morning."

      "Shall you be tired?" he enquired.

      "Tired!" she queried, "I shall be hot with shame. I shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. I – I shall give myself a most awful time. For days I shall live in torture. You see I'm excited now and – and – you seem so nice, and you've been so awfully kind; but when I get alone, then I shall start wondering what was in your mind, what you have been thinking of me, and – and – oh! it will be awful. No; I'll come with you while you get your hat. I daren't be left alone. It might come on then and – and I should probably bolt. Of course I shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because – because – "

      "I'm your fiancé," he smiled.

      "Ummm," she nodded.

      Both were silent as they sped along westward in the taxi, neither seeming to wish to break the spell.

      "Thinking?" enquired Bowen