“Couldn’t you bring me back somefing nice?” she pleaded wistfully. “Sweets—or a cracker—or a very pretty cake with icing on it?”—and though Betty proved adamant, Jill succumbed.
“What are pouches for if you can’t carry things in them?” she demanded. “My party body has a huge pouch. I’ll bring you samples, Pam, and if there are enough, we’ll share them together!”
When the great night arrived, Miles was decidedly short as to temper, but he looked so tall and imposing in his dress suit, that Cynthia’s designation of “man” seemed nothing but his due. Like all male beings, he seemed to regard the behaviour of his tie and shirt front as the only things of importance in the universe, and so completely engrossed was he thereby that he had only an absent, “Oh, all right!” to return to Betty’s anxious inquiries as to her own appearance.
They crossed the road together, three ungainly-looking figures in ulsters and snow-shoes, and were admitted to the Vanburgh hall, which was instinct with the air of festivity. Flowers everywhere, plants banked up in the background, attentive servants to wave you forward; more servants to greet you at the head of the staircase, to help you to unwrap in the bedroom, and make you feel ashamed that your tweed coat was not an opera mantle, like the charming specimens displayed on the bed!
In the drawing-room quite a number of guests were assembled, and Miles was relieved to discover that he was by no means the only member of his sex. Betty’s first shyness died away as Christabel smiled at her across the room, and patted the empty seat by her side with an inviting gesture. She looked very charming and imposing in her evening dress, but when Betty ventured to admire it she was informed that it was “A rag, my dear—a prehistoric rag!” and warned that at any moment the worn-out fabric might be expected to fly asunder, when “As you love me, fling yourself upon me, and hurl me from the room! My entertainment comes on last of all. I arranged it so for a special reason,” Christabel explained, with the grande dame air which was one of her chief characteristics. “We are to draw lots for the rest, so that there shall be no favouritism.”
Presently the lots were drawn, and who should draw number one but Jill, the casual and unprepared! Betty blushed for her, and felt a wild longing to creep beneath the grand piano, but Jill herself laughed, and went forward to seat herself on a chair facing the whole assembly with undisturbed composure.
Everyone stared at her, and she stared back, dropping her head on one side, and screwing up her saucy nose with a transparent pretence of embarrassment, which aroused the first laugh of the evening. Everybody was amused and interested, and ready to be pleased, so that the announcement, “I’m going to ask riddles!” instead of falling flat, as might have been expected, was received with quite a burst of applause. And there she sat asking riddles—venerable old chestnuts for the most part, and the marvel of it was that it was a most lively performance, for the orthodox answers were mischievously replaced by newer and more amusing editions, and one person after another would cry, “That reminds me—do you know what is the difference,” etcetera, etcetera, so that presently everyone was asking riddles and catches, and really good ones into the bargain, and it was only after fifteen minutes had elapsed that Jill retired from her post beneath a hurricane of applause. Happy Jill, it was her birthright to charm! It seemed impossible that she should ever do the wrong thing.
When it came to Betty’s turn she played conscientiously through the Sonata Pathetique, with which she had been wrestling for two hours a day for the last month. That very morning she had played it over without a single fault, and really and truly the runs had sounded quite professional; but when your head throbs, and your cheeks burn, and your heart pounds, and your feet grow cold, and your fingers are hot, and stick together, and refuse to do what they are told, it is wonderful how differently things sound! Poor Sonata! It really was rather pathetic, and it is to be feared that the audience was almost as much relieved as was Betty herself, when it came to an end.
The Magnetic Lady performance was a great success, Miles as showman being an agreeable surprise to his relations, for if he were not discursive, he was at least perfectly composed and business-like, and the poker trick and balancing feats were alike marvellous and perplexing.
Agatha recounted a story of a haunted castle, and of a ghost which was not a ghost at all, but simply a gentleman’s bath-gown hung on a nail. The plot was decidedly thin, but the audience found amusement in the quaint and truly Rendell-like phraseology in which it was presented, and in the lavish use of italics. Poor crushed Betty congratulated Agatha on her success, and Agatha rolled her eyes, and cried tragically—