When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 16

Her daughter laughs heartily. A wicked desire to shock Lady MacDonald, as Giddy has so often excited her to do on previous occasions, seizes Eleanor.

"Oh, _no_, Ma! We have big dinners at eight o'clock. Five courses and serviettes. You ask Lady MacDonald."

"I don't call this a cup," declares Mr. Grebby, grinning broadly as Eleanor hands him his tea. "It's more like an acorn!" He takes half a dozen slices of bread and b.u.t.ter and munches them hungrily.

"I'm a bit peckish, my girl," he says. "But then we've had a long day, and fastin' don't agree with me. We went to the Tower, Madame Tussaud's, and the Exhibition of Tortures in Leicester Square. We liked that best of all."

"But what did you do with Rover?" asks Eleanor, exciting the dog to jump on the sofa and patting his wet nose.

"We left him at Cousin Harriett's. We can stay the night here with you, and after that we are going to put up a bit at her lodging-house in Bloomsbury. Ma was set on bringing old Rover to see you, as we think he won't last long now."

"The dear fellow!" murmurs Eleanor, cutting the pink cake. "Some more tea, Lady MacDonald?"

"_No_, thank you," and the severity of the tone startles Eleanor.

She fears she has committed some deadly offence in offering this proud beauty a second cup. Never was there a more grotesque tea-party on the terrace than in Eleanor's boudoir that afternoon. Giddy with deepest shame, resentment and horror, raging in her heart. Lady MacDonald haughty and disdainful, eyeing the homely couple as she would the beasts at the Zoo. Mrs. Grebby, speechless in admiring silence, fingering the frills of the sofa cus.h.i.+ons, and taking in the pattern of the wall-paper, her breast swelling with pride and gratification. Mr.

Grebby, his large boots on the brightly polished fender, his red face wreathed in smiles, and slowly filling a short clay pipe, as bucolic a specimen of manhood as Copthorne could produce.

Lastly, Eleanor, looking perfectly fairy-like under the red lamp, caressing the old dog with her slim white hands, and talking first to one guest, then to the other, with supreme good nature, her father's basket of apples on her knee.

"I must send some of these pears in to you, Giddy," she says, "I can't spare the apples, but your cook may like to stew----"

She pauses, reading her friend's expression of disdain.

She stammers something unintelligible to hide her confusion, wondering what she has said to offend, and changing the subject, asks hesitatingly:

"Did--er did you put me up for the 'b.u.t.terflies?'"

Mrs. Mounteagle had only that morning requested Lady MacDonald to second Eleanor.

Now she grows crimson at the thought, for Lady MacDonald is her trump card in the club.

"Thinking it over," replies Giddy. "I am quite sure Mr. Roche won't approve of us poor little b.u.t.terflies. He will imagine that a club must necessarily be emanc.i.p.ated, that it will lead you into latchkey habits, and advance your ideas too rapidly. I should advise you to stay at home, my dear, and" (with a cynical little smile) "stew your pears."

Mrs. Grebby has drawn the parish magazine from the recesses of an enormous pocket in her petticoat, and hands it to her daughter.

"I thought you'd like to read the news," she says. "Mrs. King's baby was christened last Sunday, and the little Browns have spread the measles in the schools."

Lady MacDonald and Giddy exchange glances that palpably say: "Why don't we go?"

The fact is Mrs. Mounteagle has been rooted to the spot, paralysed as it were by a sense of shame and humiliation.

Lady MacDonald has watched the scene as at a play, a comedy in low-life, acted for the benefit of the stalls and boxes.

"We really must go," murmurs Giddy hastily, catching her breath as Mr.

Grebby lights his pipe with a match he has rasped along his trousers.

She rises, gathering up a long feather boa to wind round her neck.

Lady MacDonald follows her example, her jingling chatelaine clanks irritatingly, as if protesting at being found in such company.

She draws on a light kid glove, proffering Eleanor her finger-tips.

"_Good_-bye, Mrs. Roche," she drawls. "I have so enjoyed a peep at your little _coterie_ to-day, but we really _must_ not intrude ourselves upon you longer, you will have so many _home_ topics to discuss."

Mrs. Mounteagle refrains from her customary caress, whereat Eleanor remarks:

"How pale you look, Giddy! Are you ill?"

"Yes," she replies, under her breath, "I have over-eaten myself--overdone with APPLES!"

CHAPTER IX.

HEART SICK AND WEARY WITH THE JOURNEY'S FRET.

"You must _not_ go to-day," declares Eleanor emphatically, addressing her parents. "I want to take you to Mrs. Mounteagle's party this afternoon. I am sure she won't mind, we are such _great_ friends, and two more will make no difference in a tea and coffee, four-to-seven squash."

"Is it a real grand party?" asks Mrs. Grebby.

"Oh, yes; no end of people have been invited, and Giddy's affairs are always so _chic_--that meaning stylish, smart--all sorts of grand dresses and bonnets."

Mrs. Grebby gasps in wonderment. "I will lend you two jewelled pins for your head gear, Ma--one of turquoise and another in the shape of an olive--that Philip bought abroad, and declares is only paste."

"Well, we _shall_ be swells," says Mr. Grebby, grinning, "and my word, what a lot we'll have to talk about when we gets 'ome."

"There," says Eleanor, shutting down an envelope and ringing for Sarah, "I have written the note to Giddy."

She whistles Rover through the window, who is scratching up the lawn, with splendid energy.

He bounds in and leaps on the sofa. Eleanor proceeds to scratch his back comfortingly with a little ivory hand on the end of a long horn stick. Then she calls for a comb, which Sarah produces, and fluffs at his coa.r.s.e hair, which is stiff, wiry, and grey.

"Mrs. Mounteagle has called to see you," says a voice in the doorway, when Rover's toilet (which has occupied a full half-hour) is eventually completed.

"Oh! show her in."

"But," with a glance at Mr. and Mrs. Grebby, "if you please, ma'am, she asked to speak to you alone."

Eleanor closes the folding doors between her boudoir and the library.

"_You_ stay here, darlings," she says in a soft, cooing voice, "and I will see Giddy in the next room. Come on, Rover--down, old boy--your wet paws have done damage enough to my gown for one morning."

Still whistling, Eleanor saunters into Giddy's presence, her eyes as radiant as stars, her lips parted in joyous greeting.

"You dear thing," she cries, "to come and see me, when you must be so busy, pinning bits of drapery over your doors, and heaping flowers into enormous vases. Can I come in and help? I am splendid at decorations, you know," remembering Giddy's cynical remarks on her artistic efforts, and laughing merrily.

"No, dear, all is prepared," speaking in funeral tones. "_But_----"