Читать книгу The Missing Angel (Sci-Fi Novel) - Erle Cox - Страница 16

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It would have astonished Tydvil Jones considerably had he known that his wife, also, had departed from the rules of her rigorous upbringing. With fluttering excitement at what she considered a far more heinous lapse than that of the curate who finished a day out by returning home in a smoking carriage, Amy had accompanied her new and distinguished acquaintance to Menzies.

During the time they, waited in the lounge, and afterwards in the great dining-room, with its gaily plumaged women and their squires, it gave her a thrill of feline satisfaction to observe the admiring eyes that followed her escort.

But there was one thorn in her bouquet of roses. For the first time in her life, she was conscious that her Spartan simplicity of dress made her feel there was no other word for it—dowdy. Yesterday she thought it would have given her a sense of pride. Today, well! There was that woman's hat, for instance, that somehow seemed to lend a vividness to a not very attractive face. Amy felt that if she wore such a hat it would take on an extra importance. "After all, why not make the best of one's looks," she reflected. "Perhaps Tydvil was right, after all."

Apart from that she felt perfectly happy. Mr. Senior proved a fascinating companion. He was both witty and understanding, and won her confidence completely. Indeed, she found herself thinking how pleasant it would be if Tydvil possessed such graceful self-assurance combined with Mr. Senior's undoubted intellectual attainments.

Tydvil never listened to Amy with such courteous and genuine interest, or deferred so respectfully to her opinions. A far less conceited woman than Amy would have found Mr. Senior's attention very flattering.

They exchanged low voiced censure on two women at a neighbouring table who drank hock with their luncheon. Mr. Senior gently deplored the state of a society in which such a spectacle could be tolerated.

Amy assured him that not only she, but her husband, shared similar views, and she hoped that she could arrange an early meeting between the two men. "You have so much in common in your principles," asserted Amy, that she was sure they would get on well together.

Mr. Senior, who was sipping mineral water, expressed a fervent hope that a meeting with Mr. Jones would not be long delayed. He also looked forward to the day when total prohibition would make the spectacle of women consuming alcoholic beverages at any time, much less in public, would be a thing of the past.

It was in their excursion round her societies afterwards that filled Amy's cup of happiness to overflowing. They spent a rapturous half hour at the League for the Suppression of Alcohol. Mr. Senior listened with profound interest to the Secretary's statistics. His eyes took on the expression of one listening to inspired harmonies. Then he capped all by, without prompting, handing a cheque for twenty-five guineas to the Secretary, becoming, thereby, a life member of the League.

At each office at which they called, its funds were from five to ten guineas better for the coming of Mr. Senior.

But he was at his best at the rooms of the Moral Uplift Society. He made innumerable enquiries as to its aims and the methods employed by its officers. When Amy was moved to tell him how Mr. Jones was rather like warm in his interest in this work, Mr. Senior was almost incredulous. He agreed with her that Mr. Jones must have failed to grasp the importance of the work being done. And when he passed over a pink slip empowering his bank to pay "Moral Uplift Society or Bearer" one hundred pounds, Amy exclaimed with gushing sincerity, "Oh, you must be a saint, Mr. Senior!"

That gentleman gently, and very modestly, disclaimed any right to such a distinction.

Afterwards, on her way home, Amy, by some earnest mental calculation, estimated that their outing must have cost Mr. Senior something like two hundred and sixty pounds.

Before stepping in to her own car, which she had ordered by telephone to meet her, Amy had extracted a promise from her friend that he would dine with her and meet her husband. "Tydvil is a tower of strength to me," she assured him.

Standing bare-headed at her car door, he thanked her for an educational and inspiring afternoon, and told her how much he was looking forward to meeting Mr. Jones, and any others of her co-workers as well.

Amy was late in arriving home that afternoon, although she had left Mr. Senior with ample time at her disposal. The delay was caused by nearly an hour spent in trying on hats at one of those retiring little shops where the most becoming headgear could be purchased—at a price.

Even the message by telephone with which her maid met her, to the effect that Mr. Jones was delayed at the office and would not be home to dinner, did not upset her genial mood. A royal row with Tydvil after dinner would be packing too much joy into one day.

She dined alone in solitary state. The maid who waited on her came to the kitchen later with a tale passing all comprehension. She related to her frankly dubious colleagues that Amy had kept dinner waiting while she changed her frock and put on a dinner gown, just to feed by herself.

"Amy's going gay," chirped the cook, pirouetting about her domain. "What a lark!"