A Wreath for Rivera by Ngaio Marsh Page B

her usual composure, the conversation must have come through like the dialogue in a boldly surrealistic broadcast.
    “… such a good photograph, we thought, Edward, of you and Félicité at the Tarmac. She so much enjoyed her party with you…”
    “… but I’m not at all musical…”
    “… you must not say so. You are musical. There is music in your eyes — your voice…”
    “… now that’s quite a nifty little idea, Miss de Suze. We’ll have to pull you in with the boys…”
    “… so it is arranged, my dear Edward.”
    “… thank you, Cousin Cécile, but…”
    “… you and Félicité have always done things together, haven’t you? We were laughing yesterday over some old photographs. Do you remember at Clochemere…?”
    “… Gee, where’s my sombrero?”
    “… with this dress you should wear flowers. A cascade of orchids. Just here. Let me show you…”
    “… I beg your pardon, Cousin Cécile, I’m afraid I didn’t hear what you said…”
    “Uncle George, it’s time you talked to me…”
    “Eh? Sorry, Lisle, I’m wondering where my sombrero…”
    “Lord Pastern is very kind in letting me keep you to myself. Don’t turn away. Look, your handkerchief is falling.”
    “
Damn!
”
    “Edward!”
    “I beg your pardon, Cousin Cécile, I don’t know what I’m thinking of.”
    “Carlos.”
    “… in my country, Miss Wayne… no, I cannot call you Miss Wayne. Car-r-r-lisle! What a strange name… Strange and captivating.”
    “Carlos!”
    “Forgive me. You spoke?”
    “About those umbrellas, Breezy.”
    “Yes, I did speak.”
    “A thousand pardons, I was talking to Carlisle.”
    “I’ve engaged a table for three, Fée. You and Carlisle and Ned. Don’t be late.”
    “My music to-night shall be for you.”
    “I am coming also, George.”
    “
What
!”
    “Kindly see that it is a table for four.”
    “
Maman
! But I thought…”
    “You won’t like it, C.”
    “I propose to come.”
    “Damn it, you’ll sit and glare at me and make me nervous.”
    “Nonsense, George,” Lady Pastern said crisply. “Be good enough to order the table.”
    Her husband glowered at her, seemed to contemplate giving further battle, appeared suddenly to change his mind and launched an unexpected attack at Rivera.
    “About your being carried out, Carlos,” he said importantly. “It seems a pity I can’t be carried out too. Why can’t the stretcher party come back for me?”
    “Now, now, now,” Mr. Bellairs interrupted in a great hurry. “We’ve got everything fixed, Lord Pastern, now, haven’t we? The first routine. You shoot Carlos. Carlos falls. Carlos is carried out. You take the show away. Big climax. Finish. Now don’t you get me bustled,” he added playfully. “It’s good and it’s fixed. Fine. That’s right, isn’t it?”
    “It is what has been decided,” Mr. Rivera conceded grandly. “For myself, I am perhaps a little dubious. Under other circumstances I would undoubtedly insist upon the second routine. I am shot at but I do not fall. Lord Pastern misses me. The others fall. Breezy fires at Lord Pastern and nothing happens. Lord Pastern plays, faints, is removed. I finish the number. Upon this routine under other circumstances, I should insist.” He executed a sort of comprehensive bow, taking in Lord Pastern, Félicité, Carlisle and Lady Pastern. “But under these exclusive and most charming circumstances, I yield. I am shot. I fall. Possibly I hurt myself. No matter.”
    Bellairs eyed him. “Good old Carlos,” he said uneasily.
    “I still don’t see why I can’t be carried out too,” said Lord Pastern fretfully.
    Carlisle heard Mr. Bellairs whisper under his breath: “For the love of Pete!” Rivera said loudly: “No, no, no, no. Unless we adopt completely the second routine, we perform the first as we rehearse. It is settled.”
    “Carlisle,” said Lady Pastern rising, “shall we…?”
    She swept her ladies into the drawing-room,
    Félicité was