“Excuse me, Lady Carrados,” said Miss Harris, “but are you feeling unwell?”
“What? No. No, thank you.”
She put the letter aside and picked up another. Soon Miss Harris’s pen was travelling busily over her pad. She made notes for the acceptance, refusal and issuing of invitations. She made lists of names with notes beside them and she entered into a long discussion about Lady Carrados’s ball.
“I’m getting Dimitri — the Shepherd Market caterer, you know — to do the whole thing,” explained Lady Carrados. “It seems to be the—” she paused oddly “—safest way.”
“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 penny you pay.”
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: “Donna!”
“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 Madonna. She had inherited too much of Paddy O’Brien’s brilliance for that. There was a fine-drawn look about her mouth. Her eyes, set wide apart, were deep under strongly marked brows. She had the quality of repose but when she smiled all the corners of her face tipped up and then she looked more like her father than her mother. “Sensitive,” thought Miss Harris, with a mild flash of illumination. “I hope she stands up to it all right. Nuisance when they get nerves.”
She returned Bridget’s punctilious “Good morning” and watched her kiss her mother.
“Darling Donna,” said Bridget, “you are so sweet.”
“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, Donna. Her grandmother, your Lady Alleyn, you know, is taking a flat for the season. Donna, please, I want Sarah asked for everything. Does Miss Harris know?”
“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, Donna darling, but really!”
“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 cannot see the smallest necessity for champagne at the buffet, Evelyn. If these young cubs can’t get enough to drink in the supper-room all I can say is, they drink a great deal too much. I must say,” continued Sir Herbert with an air of discovery, “that I do not understand the mentality of modern youths. Gambling too much, drinking too much, no object in life — look at that young Potter.”
“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 Donna’s money,” objected Bridget. “It’s half mine. Daddy left—”
“Bridget, darling,” said Lady Carrados, “breakfast.”