CHAPTER SIX. The Appointment

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      Miss Loveapple returned to the morning-room as she felt the need of a cigarette; but instead of finding the usual solace in tobacco, she grew angry as she went over the interview in her mind.

      It was characteristic that her annoyance was directed chiefly against herself. Underneath her surface importance, was a vast area of fundamental humility which made her ready to assume the blame for any mishap.

      'Everything's mucked up,' she thought despairingly. 'It's all my fault. Gold-digging and boasting. I hate myself.'

      However, by the time the cigarette was reduced to a stub, she found herself reacting to the usual swing.

      'Honestly, why shouldn't I talk about my houses? When people have triplets, they don't hush it up and talk about "Our child," as if they were one...My three houses mean achievement. I wanted to do something against the odds—and I did it. I did it all by myself. And I've done no one any harm. It's the other way round.'

      She remembered her purchase of her London home and the gratitude of the lean grey man who could not afford to live there any longer. To save rates, it had remained empty for years, which accounted for its neglected condition. Large family residences of that type were a drug on the market, particularly as the land was not available for a rebuilding proposition.

      The building-contractor too, who had sold her the seaside bungalow, had wanted to turn his money over and so needed to make a quick sale. She had helped to put money into circulation, so was an actual benefactor to the nation.

      The fact remained, however, that her plans were upset—and she hated altering any of her arrangements. Yet, in the uncertain state of affairs, it seemed hardly worthwhile to open the London house. Although it went dead against the grain, it would be wiser to own herself beaten and return at once to Highfield.

      As she hesitated, the trifles of yesterday assumed their places in the pattern. If she stayed on in London, Captain Brown would have extra time in which to slaughter her beloved garden. Tied down to a limit of two weeks, he could not do so much damage.

      There was another inducement. When she had promised to help at the refreshment stall, at the Garden Fête, she had expected the usual dull affair. Now the presence of Lady Pontypool—a photographed and paragraphed beauty—would attract strangers and turn it into a function. As matters stood, Miss Loveapple was committed to send contributions to the stall for which she would receive no entertainment value.

      The snow mountains which were her secret passion still beckoned to her with polar magnetic fingers, but she reminded herself that they were eternal.

      'They've waited so long for me,' she reflected, 'that they can wait a little longer.'

      She shut the window of the morning-room, shook up a cushion which was hollowed by the impress of Buckingham's head and picked up the ash-tray which contained the ashes of his cigarette and hers.

      As she ran down the basement stairs to the kitchen, she was conscious that her spirits had risen at the prospect of returning to the Pond House. Feeling hungry, she cut off a generous crust from the loaf and ate it, butterless, while she drank the milk. Then she went upstairs and began to shut windows and draw curtains.

      Once again, a bell rang. This time it was the telephone exchange, trying to get her number. As she lifted the receiver, she recognised the leisurely voice of Mr Lemon, the house-agent.

      'I'm afraid I have some disappointing news,' he said. 'Major Brand has been called away to Wales on business.'

      'I know all about that,' Miss Loveapple told him. 'The fish have caught him, for a change. His brother-in-law has just been here and spilled the beans.'

      'I didn't know he had one.' Mr Lemon lost his drawl. 'I hope you didn't settle anything with him?'

      'No. I did not. But I want to get the Major's cheque just as soon as you possibly can.'

      'I will, but it will take some time. I shall have to wait until I receive his address...Meantime, something has turned up which might interest you. Mrs Brand has taken a fancy to the house, as it is quiet and there is a garden for the children...So, if you would like to sell, I have no doubt I can get a good offer from Major Brand before he returns to India.'

      There was a marked pause before Miss Loveapple replied.

      'I have no intention of selling the house.'

      'Not at present,' remarked the agent. 'But turn it over in your mind, as there are points about it. In any case, I should like to discuss it with you, as I think it might prove to your ultimate advantage.'

      'Well, there's no harm in talking it over,' agreed Miss Loveapple. 'But I must come at once, for I am not stopping in London.'

      The agent was naturally aghast at this threat to his golf.

      'You've forgotten it is Saturday afternoon and all offices are closed,' he said. 'I'm rushing now, to catch a train. Can you come in Monday?'

      Miss Loveapple frowned, hesitated and finally gave in.

      'Well, since I'm here, I suppose I can stay the weekend. A personal interview saves so many letters. I'll call not later than ten-thirty. Good-bye.'

      After she had rung off, she repented her decision. She would have to make up a bed for only a couple of nights, besides using towels and napery. But while this objection had a definite basis of economy, there was a submerged reason for her reluctance to stay.

      She vaguely realised that she was beginning to take a dislike to the house.

      Although it had been papered and furnished so lavishly, she could not forget the desolation which was hidden. It was as though the natural order had been reversed and she had seen a skeleton before it was covered by flesh.

      Looking back, she came to the conclusion that while she was especially proud of No. 19, Madeira Crescent, she had never felt really