Said Torrington to Patricia, “I hear your husband may be coming to us, Mrs. Jameson. If he does you must come down to Brighton and stay.”—sotto voce—“I’ll find you a horse to ride. It’s against regulations, of course. . . .”
“How did you know about Peter?” smiled Patricia, looking her stateliest in black velvet.
“I’m helping the Colonel in the office. Light duty, you know. He told me he meant to get your husband and that other chap, Bromley. The Colonel usually gets what he goes for.” He looked meaningly across at Alice, and added maliciously. “By the way, aren’t you Jacky Baynet’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“Jacky was devilish cut-up when the old man married Alice. . . .”
Waiters brought in the champagne, three magnums.
“I am perfectly certain,” drawled Purves—in the middle of a hush—to the widow, “that any more wine will have a most intoxicating affect on the party.”
“Turn his glass down, Mrs. Armitage.” This from the Weasel. “We musn’t let the children get into bad habits.”
Mrs. Armitage obeyed: and the two struggled amiably together, Pettigrew twinkling over the fray.
“Peter,” lisped Alice, bubbling glass at red lips, “Douglas is so keen on you and your friend coming to us.”