Nothing Venture by Patricia Wentworth

enthusiasm.
    â€œWell, if this isn’t the best thing that ever happened? I’ll tell London it is!”
    Nan looked on breathlessly, and saw Jervis break into a smile.
    â€œFazackerley!” he cried.
    The little man puffed harder.
    â€œI’ll tell the world! This is the best thing I’ve struck since—well, there isn’t any since about it. I’d liefer have run up against you than have gotten an invitation to tea with Mussolini with carte blanche to print every word he said and film him whilst he said it—and I can’t say more than that. So far he’s eluded me. I’ve interviewed President Hoover, and Ramsay Macdonald, and Clemenceau, and Trotzky, and the unfortunate late Czar, and Gene Tunney, and Dean Inge, and Don Bradman, and Al Capone; but so far Mussolini has eluded me. I’m not making him my life-work, but I’d like to get him; so when I say I’d rather have run up against you—well, there it is—right from the heart—straight from the pulsating fount of the emotions!”
    Jervis continued to smile.
    â€œYou’ll collect a crowd, F.F.”
    â€œWhat else do I live for?” said Mr Fazackerley. He turned, holding Jervis by the arm. “I’ve got to apologize for butting in—” His bright brown eyes darted a question at Nan; his manner intimated plainly that he awaited an introduction.
    Nan wanted to run away. She wondered what Jervis would say if she did. Then she wondered what he was going to say if she didn’t. There was, actually, only one bewildered moment before he said,
    â€œLet me introduce, Mr Ferdinand Fazackerley.”
    The next moment Nan’s hand was being shaken by one that felt very thin and very strong, and Mr Fazackerley’s high-pitched voice was saying earnestly,
    â€œI’m very pleased to meet you—but he hasn’t told me who I’m being very pleased to meet.”
    Before Jervis could speak, Nan said,
    â€œMrs Weare.”
    She said it on the impulse that would have prompted her to do anything disagreeable herself rather than leave Jervis to do it. To feel like that about it, and to proclaim herself his wife, thrust at her with such a sharply pointed pain that it was all that she could do not to cry out. The effort she made brought a flush to her cheeks.
    The darting brown eyes went from her to Jervis, and back again to her flushed face. Mr Fazackerley still had his left hand on Jervis’ sleeve; with his right he continued to shake Nan’s hand.
    â€œIf that isn’t great!” he said. “Mrs Weare, I’ve just got to say all over again how pleased I am. If this isn’t just the greatest thing that ever happened! Where can we go and talk?”
    â€œI’ve got an appointment with my solicitor,” said Jervis. “But after that—”
    â€œYou’ll both dine with me. If you’re engaged, just telephone them and say you’re dead. What’s the good of a beneficent invention like the telephone if it can’t get you out of an engagement? We’ll dine at the Luxe in our gladdest rags. I’ve a tuxedo in my trunk—I’ve a claw-hammer somewhere—I’ll go the whole hog and buy a white tie. We’ve just got to celebrate!” He beamed brightly upon Nan. “If you knew what a lot I’ve heard about Rosamund, and how badly I’ve wanted to meet you—”
    Mr Fazackerley stopped there, because his left hand felt the sudden jerk with which Jervis drew back, whilst to his right was communicated a tremor. Nan’s hand quivered for a moment in his and then stiffened.
    Mr Fazackerley released it, stepped back a pace, darted a searching glance from a pale girl to a horrified young man, and exclaimed,
    â€œGreat Wall Street! Have I dropped a brick?”
    He looked so alarmed and disconcerted that Nan stopped being embarrassed.
    â€œI’m not Rosamund,” she said quite simply.