“He might be,” said Charles dubiously. “Speaking for myself, I find him even more unlikable in his ingratiating moments than when he sees himself as Lord of all he surveys. You ought to hear Dad on the subject of his antics on the Borough Council! He says Warrenby would like to be a sort of puppet-master pulling strings to set the rest of 'em dancing to his tune. Peculiar ambition!”
“Power-complex,” said Abby, nodding wisely. “I expect my old toot would find him an interesting study.”
“I may be out of date,” said Miss Patterdale, “but I do not think you ought to call Geoffrey Silloth a toot—whatever a toot may be!”
“But he is a toot, angel! You are too, and it's someone lamb-like, and altogether a good-thing-and-memorable!”
“I have never met Mr. Silloth, but I know what I look like, and it isn't a lamb. Not at all sure it isn't rather like a goat,” said Miss Patterdale reflectively. “Not Celia, but Rosalind.”
This unflattering self-portrait met with such indignant refutation that Miss Patterdale, though maintaining her customary brusqueness, turned quite pink with pleasure. Another drink was clearly called for by the time her young admirers had, as they hoped, convinced her that she bore no resemblance to a creature it would have been the height of mendacity to have called a pet animal; and Charles got up to mix it. It was as he was handing her glass to Abby that an interruption occurred. The garden-gate was heard to click, and Abby, glancing over her shoulder, saw through the open casement Mavis Warrenby, coming in a stumbling run up the flagged path, one hand pressed to her panting bosom, and her whole appearance betokening extreme agitation.
“Good lord, what's up?” exclaimed Abby. “It's Mavis!”
The front-door of Fox Cottage stood hospitably open, but it was seen that even in emergency Miss Warrenby was not one to burst uninvited into a strange house. A trembling knock was heard, accompanied by a tearful voice uttering Miss Patterdale's name. “Miss Patterdale! Oh, Miss Patterdale!” it wailed.
Charles, who was standing by the dresser, with the gin-bottle in his hand, cast a startled and enquiring look at his hostess, and then set the bottle down, and went out into the narrow front passage. “Hallo!” he said. “Anything wrong?”
Mavis, who was leaning in a limp way against the door-post, gasped, and stammered: “Oh! I didn't— I don't know what to do! Miss Patterdale— Oh, I don't know what to do!”