been present. What d'you think, Ensor?”
“I think that's obvious, Asquith.” Max tried to keep the irritation from his voice but barely succeeded. He had been stung by the underlying mockery of the piece. As a politician he thought he had developed a thick skin, and yet those little darts had somehow managed to penetrate. “At least we know the paper's written by a woman . . . or women.”
“How so?” The Prime Minister held a long curl of gray ash over a deep marble ashtray, waiting reflectively for it to drop from the cigar tip of its own accord.
“It's obvious,” Max said with a dismissive wave at the newspaper. “Only women would write of trivialities in that mischievous way. Gossip is not a man's forte. Neither is idle chitchat, not to mention this matchmaking service. It's a women's newspaper.”
“A Society women's newspaper,” Asquith stressed. “So who could be responsible?”
Max was silent and his companions regarded him with interest. “Max, you have some idea?”
“Perhaps,” he said with a careless shrug. “Just a hunch. But I wouldn't bet the farm on it.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn't mind knowing who's behind it.” The Prime Minister yawned. “What is it that's so soporific about steak and kidney pie?”
It was a rhetorical question. Max stood up. “If you'll excuse me, Prime Minister . . . gentlemen . . . I have an engagement at three o'clock.”
He left them dozing peacefully amid the soft snores and discreet conversational buzz of the Members' Lounge and made his way to Albermarle Street to collect his sister. He was looking forward to the rest of the afternoon. A little cat and mouse with Miss Constance Duncan.
“I can't think where Constance is. Did she say when she would be back?” Chastity asked her sister as Prudence came into the drawing room with a large crystal bowl brimming with heavy-headed, deep red roses.
“No, but since she was only going to Swan and Edgar's for some ribbon, I assumed she'd have been home long since.” Prudence set the roses on a round cherry wood table and wiped a drop of water from the tabletop with her sleeve.
A worried frown crossed Chastity's face. “Surely she would have said if she wasn't going to be back for three o'clock?”
“Normally she would have said if she wasn't going to be back for lunch,” Prudence declared, trying to dissipate her sister's concern with a briskly cheerful mien.
It worked to a certain extent, diverting Chastity's anxiety for a minute. “Well, she didn't miss much,” Chastity responded, plumping up cushions on the sofa. “Last night's warmed-over fish pie.” She wrinkled her nose. “There's something about second-day fish, particularly cod, that's more than ordinarily unappetizing.”
She caught her elder sister's expression and said, “Oh, don't look so disapproving, Prue. I can make a comment, surely. I know perfectly well we can't waste food, heaven forbid, but I don't have to like old cod, do I?”
Prudence shook her head ruefully, wondering why she so often felt responsible for the shifts they had to make to manage some degree of solvency. It was true she made these sometimes disagreeable choices for them all, but someone had to. “No, you don't,” she agreed. “And neither do I. But we can only eat up leftovers when Father's not at the table.”
“So we must take the opportunity when it arises,” Chastity responded with a wry grimace. She glanced up at the handsome Italianate gilt clock on the marble mantelpiece. “Look at the time. Where
is
Con? It's almost half past two. People will start ringing the bell at three.” The worry was back in her voice.
Prudence tried another diversion. Once Chastity started fretting, she would soon be imagining every kind of disaster. “I wonder if Max Ensor will beat a path to our door this afternoon?” She went to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. “Should we open these?”
Chastity forced herself to
“I think that's obvious, Asquith.” Max tried to keep the irritation from his voice but barely succeeded. He had been stung by the underlying mockery of the piece. As a politician he thought he had developed a thick skin, and yet those little darts had somehow managed to penetrate. “At least we know the paper's written by a woman . . . or women.”
“How so?” The Prime Minister held a long curl of gray ash over a deep marble ashtray, waiting reflectively for it to drop from the cigar tip of its own accord.
“It's obvious,” Max said with a dismissive wave at the newspaper. “Only women would write of trivialities in that mischievous way. Gossip is not a man's forte. Neither is idle chitchat, not to mention this matchmaking service. It's a women's newspaper.”
“A Society women's newspaper,” Asquith stressed. “So who could be responsible?”
Max was silent and his companions regarded him with interest. “Max, you have some idea?”
“Perhaps,” he said with a careless shrug. “Just a hunch. But I wouldn't bet the farm on it.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn't mind knowing who's behind it.” The Prime Minister yawned. “What is it that's so soporific about steak and kidney pie?”
It was a rhetorical question. Max stood up. “If you'll excuse me, Prime Minister . . . gentlemen . . . I have an engagement at three o'clock.”
He left them dozing peacefully amid the soft snores and discreet conversational buzz of the Members' Lounge and made his way to Albermarle Street to collect his sister. He was looking forward to the rest of the afternoon. A little cat and mouse with Miss Constance Duncan.
“I can't think where Constance is. Did she say when she would be back?” Chastity asked her sister as Prudence came into the drawing room with a large crystal bowl brimming with heavy-headed, deep red roses.
“No, but since she was only going to Swan and Edgar's for some ribbon, I assumed she'd have been home long since.” Prudence set the roses on a round cherry wood table and wiped a drop of water from the tabletop with her sleeve.
A worried frown crossed Chastity's face. “Surely she would have said if she wasn't going to be back for three o'clock?”
“Normally she would have said if she wasn't going to be back for lunch,” Prudence declared, trying to dissipate her sister's concern with a briskly cheerful mien.
It worked to a certain extent, diverting Chastity's anxiety for a minute. “Well, she didn't miss much,” Chastity responded, plumping up cushions on the sofa. “Last night's warmed-over fish pie.” She wrinkled her nose. “There's something about second-day fish, particularly cod, that's more than ordinarily unappetizing.”
She caught her elder sister's expression and said, “Oh, don't look so disapproving, Prue. I can make a comment, surely. I know perfectly well we can't waste food, heaven forbid, but I don't have to like old cod, do I?”
Prudence shook her head ruefully, wondering why she so often felt responsible for the shifts they had to make to manage some degree of solvency. It was true she made these sometimes disagreeable choices for them all, but someone had to. “No, you don't,” she agreed. “And neither do I. But we can only eat up leftovers when Father's not at the table.”
“So we must take the opportunity when it arises,” Chastity responded with a wry grimace. She glanced up at the handsome Italianate gilt clock on the marble mantelpiece. “Look at the time. Where
is
Con? It's almost half past two. People will start ringing the bell at three.” The worry was back in her voice.
Prudence tried another diversion. Once Chastity started fretting, she would soon be imagining every kind of disaster. “I wonder if Max Ensor will beat a path to our door this afternoon?” She went to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. “Should we open these?”
Chastity forced herself to
Similar Books
