“Then I will let you know. We might have a theatre party.”
“Anything you like. And why not ask Adela Sellingworth to make a fourth?”
This suggestion was not at all to Braybrooke’s liking, but he scarcely knew what to say in answer to it. Really, it seemed as if this afternoon was to end as it had begun—in a contretemps.
“I am so fond of her,” continued Miss Van Tuyn. “And I’m sure she would enjoy it.”
“But she so seldom goes out.”
“All the more reason to try to persuade her out of her shell. I believe she will come if you tell her I and Mr. Craven make up the rest of the party. We all got on so well together in Soho.”
“I will certainly ask her,” said Braybrooke.
What else could he say?
At the corner of Berkeley Square Miss Van Tuyn stopped and rather resolutely bade him good-bye.
When Braybrooke was alone he felt almost tired out. If he had been an Italian he would probably have believed that someone had looked on him that day with the evil eye. He feared that he had been almost maladroit. His social self-confidence was severely shaken. And yet he had only meant well; he had only been trying to do what he considered his duty. It had all begun with Miss Cronin’s preposterous mistake. That had thoroughly upset him, and from that moment he had not been in possession of his normal means. And now he was let in for a party combining Adela Sellingworth with Miss Van Tuyn and Craven. It was singularly unfortunate. But probably Lady Sellingworth would refuse the invitation he now had to send her. She really went out very seldom. He could only hope for a refusal. That, too, was tragic. He could not remember ever before having actively wished that an invitation of his should be declined.