“The master has just rung up, madam, to say that he cannot get back this evening in time to accompany you out to Hampstead to-night, and will you please make his apologies to Mrs. Rivington.”
Claudia listened with a curious compression of her lips, like someone who listens with irritation to a too frequently told tale. Then she made a quick movement towards the door.
“I must speak to him myself. It’s too bad. Mrs. Rivington——”
Then she stopped short, as though second thoughts had put a check on her impulse. She came back to Image with a resigned shrug of her shoulders.
“It really is too bad of Gilbert. I spend half my time making apologies for him and meekly bearing the ill-temper of my hostess whose table has been disarranged.” Yet she looked anything but meek as she said it. “I am sure people will soon cease to ask us, because it is annoying to have your table upset at the last minute. It would try the patience of a hostess in heaven. Mrs. Rivington will be furious. She has asked us several times and we’ve refused.... Oh, well! I must go and telephone at once. That’s the only peace-offering and oblation I can make.”
“Let me go, Claud,” said Patricia; “you can’t leave your guests, and as she is a stranger to me, her wrath will pass harmlessly over my head.”
Claudia accepted the offer with relief. “You’ll find the number under Major-General Rivington, Newcombe Avenue. I say, Pat, suggest that, as Gilbert can’t come, I shall absent myself also.” Hopefully. “Perhaps she’ll let me off, as they are Gilbert’s friends rather than mine. Get me a reprieve if you can. It’s in the wilds of West Hampstead, and it’s such a long drive for a bad dinner.”
“Right-o! I’ll be a perfect Machiavelli on the telephone,” sang out Pat as she departed.
Dr. Fritz Neeburg, who was sitting near by, looked up as Pat went. “Is Gilbert in the habit of working in the evening, Mrs Currey?” he asked quietly.