What are you doing?
I didn't order anything here I'm afraid.”
“Nothing so far.
But I can always go round to Brat's.”
“But that's so expensive.
I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in.
I thought you were certain to be out.”
“Well I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.”
Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray (…
“John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie.
Could you be an angel and help me out.
Only be quick, because we're going in now”).
Then he would go precipitately for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course … One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.
“Where are you going for the week-end?”
“Hetton.”
“Who's that?
I forget?”
“Tony Last.”
“Yes, of course.
She's lovely, he's rather a stick.
I didn't know you knew them.”
“Well I don't really.
Tony asked me in Brat's the other night.
He may have forgotten.”
“Send a telegram and remind them.
It is far better than ringing up.
It gives them less chance to make excuses.
Send it tomorrow just before you start.
They owe me for a table.”
“What's their dossier?”
“I used to see her quite a lot before she married.
She was Brenda Rex, Lord St. Cloud's daughter, very fair, under-water look.
People used to be mad about her when she was a girl.
Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time.
Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig.
I should say it was time she began to be bored.
They've been married five or six years.
Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house.
I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous.
They've got one child at least, perhaps more.”
“Mumsey, you are wonderful.
I believe you know about everyone.”
“It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.”
Mrs. Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop.
An American woman bought two patch-work quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs. Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades.
It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove and the walls were always damp.
The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.
“That's the way,” she said, “you are doing very nicely, Joyce.
I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.” “Thank you, Mrs. Beaver.”
They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs. Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it.