“You know you aren't putting your heart into this.”
“Oh,” said Tony. “Coop-coop-coop.”
Presently he said again,
“Coop-coop-coop.”
“Don't be dumb,” said Mrs. Rattery, “that isn't a pair …” They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains.
Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs. Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold.
They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room.
“What must that man have thought?” said Tony, when he had gone out. (“Sitting there clucking like a `en,” Albert reported, “and the little fellow lying dead upstairs.”)
“We'd better stop.”
“It wasn't a very good game.
And to think it's the only one you know.”
She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs.
Ambrose and Albert brought in tea.
Tony looked at his watch.
“Five o'clock.
Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes.
Jock must be in London by now.”
Mrs. Rattery said,
“I'd rather like some whisky.”
Jock had not seen Brenda's flat.
It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district.
Mrs. Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall.
There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop.
A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN.
But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember as she came in and out, to change the indicator.
He found her front door on the second floor.
After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs. Beaver undertook the reconstruction.
Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door.
Nobody came to open it.
It was ten past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home.
He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go.
But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone.
“Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?”
“I am.
Is she a friend of yours?”
“Oh such a friend,” said Princess Abdul Akbar.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?”
“I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's.
I'm just going there myself.
Can I give her any message?”
“I had better come and see her.”
“Well wait five minutes and you can go with me.
Come inside.”
The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Thibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator.
Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lallique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a wastepaper basket made of varnished aquatints, a polliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style.
In so small a room the effect was distracting.
The Princess sat at the looking glass, Jock behind her on the divan.
“What's your name?”' she asked over her shoulder.
He told her.
“Oh, yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last … such a quaint old place.” “I'd better tell you.