‘You’ll get awfully little to eat,’ warned Stephen, who was tired to death and who did not want him.
‘Oh, all right, I’ll bring some dinner along,’ he said blithely, and with that he hung up the receiver.
At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loaded like a pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he had spoilt his new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozed through a box containing the lobster salad.
He thrust the box into Stephen’s hands. ‘Here, you take it—it’s dripping. Can I have a wash rag?’ But after a moment he forgot the new gloves. ‘I’ve raided Fortnum and Mason—such fun—I do love eating things out of cardboard boxes. Hallo, Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did you get it? A nice little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and it’s got a ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait a minute—what’s it called? Oh, yes, a baronia—it’s so humble to have such a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful—don’t rock the lobster about like that. I told you the thing was dripping!’
He dumped his parcels on to the hall table.
‘I’ll take them along to the kitchen,’ smiled Puddle.
‘No, I will,’ said Brockett, collecting them again, ‘I’ll do the whole thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people’s kitchens.’
He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood—the mood when his white hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh was too high and his movements too small for the size of his broad-shouldered, rather gaunt body. Stephen had grown to dread him in this mood; there was something almost aggressive about it; it would seem to her that he thrust it upon her, showing off like a child at a Christmas party.
She said sharply: ‘If you’ll wait, I’ll ring for the maid.’ But Brockett had already invaded the kitchen.
She followed, to find the cook looking offended.