At half past four on the same afternoon, Inez Fratten walked into the morning-room of her father’s big house in Queen Anne’s Gate, pulled off her soft hat and threw it on to a chair, shook her hair loose, and picked up a telephone.
“Wilton 0550 . . . Is that 27 Gr . . . Oh Jill! Inez speaking. Jill darling, come and dine with us tonight and play Bridge. Ryland’s dining in, as he calls it, for once in a blue moon. I’m so anxious that one of his dangerous tastes should have the best and brightest home influence to distract him from—et cetera, et cetera,—you know—sweet young English girlhood and all the rest of it—you’re just exactly it—with a small ‘i’. Yes, Golpin, I’ll have it in here. It’s all right, darling, I’m talking about tea. I say, did you see Billie last night? She was with that awful Hicking man again—you know, the pineapple planter or whatever it is they make fortunes out of in Borneo or New Guinea or somewhere. Billie’s simply fascinated with him because he’s got a ruby tooth—she follows him about everywhere and says awful things to make him laugh—he thinks he’s made a frightful conquest. They were at the Pink Lizard last night, but you may have left. Who was that exquisite young thing you’d got in tow? No—really—I thought he was a pet. Well, you’re coming, aren’t you? If you want a cocktail you must have it at home because father’s joined an anti-cocktail league or made a corner in Marsala or something. So long, my Jill. Eight o’clock—don’t be late, because we won’t wait. Poitry.”
Inez put down the telephone and walked across to the fireplace. There was a small Chippendale mirror above it and she was just tall enough to see into it while she ran her fingers through the soft waves of her brown hair—peculiarly golden-brown, lighter than auburn, but in no sense red. A shade darker were the low, straight eyebrows which crowned a pair of the coolest, clearest grey eyes in the world—eyes that looked at you so steadily and calmly that you felt instinctively: “lying is going to be an uncomfortable job here.” For classic loveliness her chin was perhaps a thought too firm, her lips not quite full enough, but when she smiled there was a bewitching droop at the corners of her mouth that relieved it of any suspicion of hardness. Altogether it was a face that not only caught your eye but took your heart and gave it a little shake each time you looked at it.
“Mr. Ryland told you he’d be in to dinner, didn’t he, Golpin?”
The pale smooth-faced butler, who was making mysterious passes over a tea-table with a pair of over-fed hands, indicated in a gentle falsetto that such was indeed the case.
“We shall be four altogether; Miss Jerrand is coming. Oh, I say, take that ghastly green cake away and bring some honey and a loaf of brown bread, etc. I’m hungry. And you’d better tell Mr. Mangane that tea’s ready—not that he’s likely to want any.”
But in this respect Inez appeared to be wrong. She had hardly helped herself to butter, honey, and a thick slice of brown bread when the door opened and her father’s secretary walked into the room. Laurence Mangane had only taken up the post a month or so ago and as he did not as a rule dine with the family—Sir Garth liked to be really alone when he was not entertaining—Inez had seen very little of him. He seemed presentable enough, she thought, as he walked quietly across the room and dropped into a chair beside her. He was rather tall and dark, with a thin black moustache that followed the line of his upper lip in the modern heroic manner.
“Afternoon, Mr. Mangane. Strong, weak, sugar, milk? I thought you didn’t like tea.”
“I don’t. Weak, sugar, no milk, please.”
Inez’s hand, waving the Queen Anne teapot, paused above a pale-green cup.