Читать книгу The Missing Angel (Sci-Fi Novel) - Erle Cox - Страница 14

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While Tydvil Jones was undergoing the experiences of the most unsettling morning of his life, Amy was as busy as a nest of hornets planning reprisals. For the first time during their married life, Tydvil had out-fought her. His revolt wounded her pride. She was too clever not to recognise that a few more victories such as that of the morning—that Battle of Breakfast would shake her domestic throne.

How very tiresome men were, thought Amy. But Tydvil's tiresomeness had to be stopped. After careful reflection on the situation, she decided that a fight to a finish in his own office, where he could not afford to make a scene, would be all to her advantage. It was this decision that impelled her to ring Tydvil to notify him of her intended call. She decided against descending on him unannounced. She had backed her challenge with the warning, that if he were absent when she arrived, she would wait for him in his office all day if necessary.

Her car was already waiting at the door when a mighty limousine Rolls Royce swung from St. Kilda Road into the drive. With all the majesty of a battleship, it came to anchor just astern of her own car as Amy was in the act of stepping in to it.

Amy stepped back under the colonnaded verandah. The chauffeur of the shining monster sprang from his seat and swung open its door almost reverently, and from the door stepped a stranger.

The car had impressed Amy. A limousine of that make meant no ordinary mortal, and Amy did not care much for ordinary mortals, except as objects of patronage. But the stranger, as he approached her, impressed her more than the car. There was a distinction in his bearing that was worthy of the entwined red R's on the radiator.

He mounted the steps and stood bareheaded before her. "May I enquire," he asked deferentially, "if I am speaking to Mrs. Tydvil Jones?" and there was a delicate flattery in the deference.

She bowed graciously.

He looked a little embarrassed. "I am afraid," he said, glancing at the waiting car, "that I have chosen an awkward moment for my call. Perhaps you will permit me to return at a more suitable time."

Amy wreathed her face in her best samples of "Dear Amy" smiles. Her mission, she assured him, was of little or no importance. Would he kindly come inside. As they entered the reception room she turned to him. Her curiosity almost was visible as it oozed from her.

He drew a gold case from his vest pocket. "My name," he said, as he handed her the card, "is Nicholas Senior, though it is probably quite unfamiliar to you, if I may venture to say so, it is not altogether unknown in England."

Amy felt she ought to know the name of one so distinguished in appearance. She felt almost guilty that it conveyed nothing to her mind. She shook her head. "I must confess that I have not heard it." She smiled graciously to reassure him that her ignorance was no reflection on him.

"I have come to Australia," explained Mr. Senior, "with the object of studying your social problems. I desire to compare them with those of Britain and the United States."

Amy brightened. "Are you representing any particular society or interested in any special branch?" she enquired with rising interest.

Her visitor shook his head. "I am entirely a free-lance, but I was informed both in England and America that Mrs. Tydvil Jones of Melbourne was pre-eminently competent to act as my mentor and guide. It is to that you owe, what I am afraid is, a somewhat untimely call."

Warm and glowing satisfaction pervaded Amy's entire system. "I did not know," she replied with smiling modesty, "that my poor little efforts were known outside the circle of my immediate associates—an enthusiastic group, Mr. Senior."

"Ah! Dear lady," he responded gently, "you do yourself far less than justice. Believe me, the name of Mrs. Tydvil Jones stands high, among those who know, on the list of the world's philanthropists." The ring of sincerity in his voice was faultless.

The words were as oil on the troubled spirit of Amy. What ammunition to use on Tydvil! "Still," she protested, "I cannot think of anyone in England who knew of my work."

He smiled. "When I decided to come to Australia, I had the honour and privilege of lunching with the Archbishop of Canterbury. I discussed with him the object of my visit, and it was from him I first learned your name. It appears that a former Archbishop of Melbourne had given him a most glowing account of your work; and"—here he felt in his pocket —"His Grace was kind enough to procure this letter for me." He handed her a dignified looking missive.

Amy took it and glanced at the address and the mitred flap. "I am delighted you have called, Mr. Senior, and you can trust me to assist you in every way I can."

"I felt sure of that." He bowed his gratitude. "Indeed, the Archbishop informed me that in making your acquaintance, I would be opening every avenue of social effort I wished to explore. It is for that reason I have taken the earliest opportunity to call."

Never before in her life had Amy felt so important or so perfectly satisfied with herself. She would let Master Tydvil know exactly where she stood. It did not occur to her to doubt for a moment that the Archbishop of Canterbury was alive to her good deeds. Although she did not belong to the Anglican church, her acquaintance with the clergy was like Sam Weller's knowledge of London, "Extensive and peculiar."

She assured Mr. Senior that she had nothing to do that might not be deferred, and readily placed herself at his disposal.

It was then that her fascinating visitor suggested the plan of her lunching with him, that they might devote the afternoon to the inspection of her endeavours. He apologised nicely to her for inviting her to Menzies, where he was staying. He expressed his own distaste at patronising an hotel, but regretted that he could not elsewhere obtain accommodation suitable for his needs.

Mr. Senior assured Amy that he was an ardent advocate for prohibition, and hoped that before he left Melbourne, his voice would be raised on that subject from some public platform.

Amy hesitated. Never in her life had she set foot in an hotel. Never did she think it possible she would be guilty of such an action. Then she remembered the Rolls Royce. It occurred to her that if a man who had lunched with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and who was a prohibitionist, did not think it wrong to stay at an hotel, surely it would not be wrong for Amy Jones to lunch there with him.

So, in the end, she dismissed her own car and stepped into that of Mr. Senior, as proud a woman as ever accompanied that gentleman anywhere— and there had been very, very many before her.