“You’ve made an impression, my boy. Yes, yes; you’ll get on with Cicely like one o’clock.”
“And be sacked by Lady Selina at half-past. By Jove! She’s a bit of a witch, a fascinator. Where does the charm come from?”
“From her mother.”
Grimshaw looked incredulous. He had envisaged the lady of the manor as formidable. He heard Pawley’s voice, slightly quavering with apprehension.
“What are you going to say to Authority?”
“Something you have not said. It’s quite likely that her belated entrance has been stage-managed. Lady Selina may wish to tackle me alone. And, if so, take my tip—skedaddle before Authority uses you as a Court of Appeal.”
Pawley owned up reluctantly:
“You read me. I want to bolt. I’m ashamed to admit that I have funked plain speech all my life. But I’m hanged if I’ll funk it any longer.”
“Your heart’s in the right place,” said Grimshaw, almost with affection. He had spent the morning with Pawley, pottering about the pretty, insanitary cottages. And every minute had tightened the bond between them, the bond that links strength with weakness, and age with youth. That bond became tauter as Pawley murmured deprecatingly:
“My heart, I fancy, is not quite in the right place. Anyway, it doesn’t do its work too well.”