Bodies from the Library 2. Группа авторов

a woman unattached. The couples were respectable, they danced with decorum, as a social rite, unsmiling, while above their heads the music raved and pranced, kicked high, and came slithering down on a wail from the saxophone.

      At last a woman appeared in the doorway alone. She was fair, small, not so very young, not so very pretty. Her nice average face was masked with paint, and her dress was showy. Mr Brodribb wondered at her presence in that place, for he had no illusions as to her calling. Neither, it seemed, had the attendants, who watched her, questioned each other with glances, and then, nodding to each other, bore down. Calmly, civilly, they edged her towards the door. The group was almost out of sight when Mr Brodribb, stepping forward and craning to see the last of the episode, caught the woman’s eye over an attendant’s shoulder. Without hesitation she pushed the man aside and came towards him, widely smiling. Dimly he heard her greeting:

      ‘Well, George, wherever have you been hiding? Keeping me standing about—’

      ‘This lady with you, sir?’ the attendant asked, doubtfully.

      ‘Can’t you see I am?’ she interrupted, and took Mr Brodribb’s arm, which he did not withhold. Reassured, the attendant moved away.

      ‘Well,’ said Mr Brodribb to his companion, ‘since you’re here and I’m here, suppose we have a dance?’

      ‘I don’t mind,’ the lady replied, surveying her face by the swift circular motion of a mirror two inches square; and without further reference to his chivalry disposed herself for him to clasp. She had a snub nose, which he liked. Her hair’s metallic refinement matched that of her voice. If her scent was pervasive, her feet kept their distance. Not a bad little woman at all, he decided. Silently they shuffled, while the music raved.

      ‘Often come here?’ Mr Brodribb asked.

      ‘Not so often,’ she replied, and was instantly in full conversational sail. ‘They don’t like a girl to come here without a gentleman. Of course I saw at once you were what I call a real gentleman, or I wouldn’t have spoken.’

      ‘Very glad you did,’ said Mr Brodribb, ‘I was wondering what to do for a partner.’

      ‘Come on your own?’ she asked.

      He explained that he lived quite near.

      ‘Lucky!’ said she. ‘It’s a nice part.’

      ‘And where do you live?’ Mr Brodribb asked, with no ulterior motive; but her answering glance dismayed him, reminded him. Through the hurry of his own thoughts he heard her say:

      ‘Not so far. Like to come along? I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

      Mr Brodribb rose.

      ‘That’s right,’ said his partner, ‘and there’s a nice pot of salmon paste I haven’t opened.’

      During the drive she told him that her name was Edna, and asked for his. He gave it, with some reluctance; unnecessarily, since she disliked it and elected to call him George as before.

      But the room into which she led the way surprised Mr Brodribb from his brooding. It was small and tidy.

      Mr Brodribb watched her preparations for tea through a cloud of thought. Where, he asked himself, could he find a correspondent more suitable in every way? Impulse overcame him; and as she handed him the cup he made his suggestion.

      Edna doubted, mocked, required assurance, read the ultimate letter from the solicitor, and was convinced.

      ‘It would have to be some hotel,’ said Mr Brodribb, ‘so as to get the servants’ evidence. I dare say you know of some place.’

      ‘Well, I do,’ she responded without enthusiasm, ‘but they’re not what I’d call very nice. What’s this place like you’re in?’

      Mr Brodribb described ‘Melrose’ at some length. She pondered.

      ‘Sounds the sort of place I’d like,’ she said at last. ‘I’m sick of these flash hotels. Everybody knows what you’re there for. Now, what I’d liked be some nice quiet boarding-house, or somewhere like that, just for once in a way.’

      Mr Brodribb, too, had been pondering. What, after all, was ‘Melrose’ to him? No final refuge, since he would have to leave as soon as the case came on. There was a vacant room next to his own.

      ‘But it would have to be as my wife,’ said he, thinking aloud.

      ‘Well, rings are cheap,’ she answered, unperturbed.

      A week later Mr Brodribb introduced a small mouse-coloured woman to ‘Melrose’ as his wife; he let it be understood that they had been married some months ago, but that Mrs Brodribb had been nursing a sick mother in the country.

      The good time ended by reason of financial pressure. Mr Brodribb, assessing his expenses for the half-year, which included two homes, a retaining fee for Edna, and a month of junketing for two, decided that the experiment could no longer continue. Edna approved.

      Mr Brodribb gave notice to the proprietress that they would leave in a week’s time, and sent a letter with the same information to the solicitors. At the prospect of losing them, upper ‘Melrose’ showed tepid surprise; nether ‘Melrose’ lamented, prophesying wrath to come, boarders in their stead who would be neither tidy, civil nor generous. For the guilty couple, grateful to the establishment which had sheltered their idyll, had no way save one of showing gratitude. On the night before their departure Ivy and Queenie were summoned. Each received garments from Edna, and from Mr Brodribb largesse. Queenie and Ivy, dismissed, descended to the kitchen almost in tears, declaring to the cook that never again would ‘Melrose’ see the like of the Brodribbs, and vowing eternal regard. Upstairs, Mr Brodribb, on his knees beside his suitcase, looked up to find Edna standing by him, a parcel in her hand.

      ‘What’s this?’

      ‘It’s just a little thing I got for you,’ Edna replied, ‘to look nice on your mantelpiece.’

      He unwrapped the gift, revealing a brown plaster monkey six inches high, dressed in striped bathing drawers and playing the fiddle left-handed. The pedestal on which it stood was pierced with holes.

      ‘For pipes,’ Edna explained. ‘Cute, isn’t it? How ever they think of these things I don’t know.’

      Mr Brodribb, overcome, acknowledged her thought for him and the genius of the inventor.

      ‘It hasn’t been such a bad old time, has it?’ he asked wistfully.

      ‘I believe you,’ Edna replied. ‘As good as a trip to the sea. You tell your wife from me she doesn’t know a gentleman when she sees one.’

      They left next morning, some two hours before the arrival of a young man who made inquiries. This young man, having told his errand, and assured the proprietress, anxious for the good name of ‘Melrose’, that only servants’ evidence would be required, sent for Ivy and Queenie, whom he interviewed in her presence. He questioned them, took notes, made clear their duty, and within twenty-five minutes departed. He was a brisk young man, who now and then sacrificed other things to promptness, and he did not on this occasion take time to observe the demeanour of the witnesses, which was, to say the least, reluctant. But three months later, when the case of Brodribb v. Brodribb and Another was called, he and his employers had cause to regret this economy of time.

      For plaintiff’s counsel, seeking to establish the facts of Mr Brodribb’s desertion and adultery, met with a check when he called upon Ivy Blout to prove that Mr Brodribb had for weeks lived in an intimacy unsanctioned by law. Having ascertained her name, age and calling, he suavely inquired:

      ‘You were housemaid at this address from October 5th last until December 10th?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Ivy replied.

      ‘During that time was the defendant a paying guest in the house?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      Counsel halted, staring.

      Ivy,