Isabel rang her up during the morning—a trunk call—with the brave intention of expressing firm and unshakable optimism but the effort was pathetically tremulous and finally petered out with inarticulate sobs and chokings.
"Oh, dear, dear! That will never do," said Mrs. Barraclough, mastering a powerful desire to kiss the microphone into which she spoke. "You mustn't even imagine anything could go wrong. Now, what are you going to do this afternoon?"
Sniff! "I donno—nuffin'," came over the wire moistly.
"Then I'll tell you. You'll go round to your dressmaker's and try on your wedding dress and pretend you're walking down the aisle with your hand on Tony's arm."
"I c-couldn't—b-but it's a l-lovely idea."
"Of course you could and you've got to. After all, it's what you'll be doing in real earnest next Thursday."
Mrs. Barraclough could almost swear to having seen the smile that dried up those tears that fell a hundred and fifty miles away.
"I'll t-try," said a tiny voice. "You are a d-darling." And later in the afternoon the telephone bell rang again sad the same voice, with a brave ring to it, announced "I've got it on."
After that Mrs. Barraclough was perfectly sure everything would be all right and walked down to the village to enquire about the prospective mother.
Shortly after she had gone Jane, who was entering the drawing room with a silver tea tray, had a real adventure. On pushing open the door she had an impression of two black coat tails disappearing through the French windows into the garden. With perilous despatch she set down the tray and rushed out to the gravel path, calling loudly to Flora. Flora, arrayed in a greasy blue overall, came hurrying from the garage where she had been spending the day tinkering with the car.