“And I know what I’ll do,” Laura went on, speaking this time of her own free will. “I’ll adopt you as an uncle. That’ll make everything all right, won’t it?” The British mind, it has been said, loves a compromise.
Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed. He did not feel at all avuncular.
Twenty minutes later Laura, having obtained leave of absence for half an hour, was in Piccadilly, a smile on her lips and laughter in her heart. Now that the die actually was cast, she was prepared to enjoy the situation to its fullest extent. And anyhow, Duffley really was deadly dull.
She entered the Piccadilly Palace and made a bee-line for the telephone room. Their own house at Duffley was not on the telephone, and she gave the Nesbitt’s number. A quarter of an hour later she got it.
“Yes?” said Cynthia’s voice very wearily. “What is it?”
“Is that you, Cynthia darling? Lawks speaking.”
“Oh!” Cynthia’s voice brightened considerably. “I thought it was another wretched reporter. They’ve been buzzing round here like flies all the afternoon, and the telephone’s been going continuously. Lawks, what have you been doing, my dear?”
“Hush! Telephones have ears, you know, besides the ones at each end. I’ll tell you all about everything when I see you. My dear, I’ve had a perfectly hectic time. I—no, not now. Cynthia, will you take a message across for me to Dawks?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“I want her to pack a trunk for me. Tell her to put in my gray costume, my new black georgette, my …” A long list followed here, of intimate interest to both Laura and Cynthia, and none at all to the reader. “Oh, well, if you can’t remember all that, just tell her all my new spring things, my best evening frocks and my choicest undies. And I want you to tell George that——” Details followed of the car and the garage at Manstead.