Free The Annam Jewel by Patricia Wentworth Page B

invited to Sunnings. The name had associations too dark and dangerous, and Coverdale had grown cautious, as befitted a landed proprietor and a Justice of the Peace.
    Miss Coverdale, who kept house for her brother, was frankly horrified at the idea of entertaining a schoolboy.
    â€œMy dear, think of his boots,” she said to Sylvia, “and his voice! You know how sensitive your father is to noise, and nobody ever knows what a boy of that age will do next.”
    Sylvia kissed her aunt very prettily.
    â€œNow, Jane Ann, don’t fuss,” she said. “He’ll be as good as gold, and you won’t have to bother with him at all. He’s my property.”
    â€œOh, my dear, I don’t approve of your engagement, as you know—and indeed, Sylvia darling, I don’t think you are really steady enough to be engaged to anyone—and, as you know, marriage is a terrible responsibility—and people who write poetry never seem to have any money or a settled home, or—or a stake in the county—and very often, my dear, their religious and moral principles are not at all what one would wish for in a husband. Where was I, Sylvia dear? I know I meant to say something, and I think that I haven’t said it. No, I’m sure I haven’t. Now what was it?”
    Sylvia giggled.
    â€œDarling, I don’t know,” she said.
    â€œI know what it was. I don’t approve of your engagement, as you know; but when you speak of this Mr. Waring being your property—well, what will Mr. Marling say?”
    â€œCyril’s coming for the week-end,” said Sylvia. She stuck her chin in the air and made limpid eyes at Miss Coverdale. “You can ask him when he comes.”
    Peter arrived next day. Miss Coverdale looked at him helplessly. He was very large, and very awkward, and he stooped. He was extraordinarily untidy even for a schoolboy. He had the largest, reddest hands, the largest, worst-shod feet, and the boniest wrists and ankles which she had ever beheld. He had the kind of thick, fair hair which stands on end and looks dusty. At first he appeared to have no conversation. When addressed he would blush crimson and mutter unintelligibly. When not addressed he would sit sprawling in a chair and fiddle with something—a book, a box, a trinket, or a bit of string.
    When Sylvia kissed her aunt good night, she remarked cheerfully:
    â€œYou see, Jane Ann, he’s perfectly quiet,” to which Miss Coverdale’s only response was a very deep sigh.
    Peter arrived on the Saturday afternoon. On Sunday he was quiescent. On Monday he sent the cat and the cook into convulsions by the very simple expedient of tying the cat up in alternate festoons of red and white crinkled paper. The cat’s name was Penelope, and she was of a highly nervous and excitable disposition. When Peter had finished with her, he roared with laughter and held her up in front of a looking-glass. Penelope uttered one piercing shriek of outraged vanity, tore a hole in Peter’s cheek, and rushed like a streak of red-and-white lightning down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen. There was a large piece of raw turbot lying on the kitchen table. Penelope sprang upon the turbot and began to dance up and down, clawing pieces out of the fish and emitting satanic screams. The cook was bending over the fire. When she turned round to see what was happening, Penelope sprang right at her face.
    â€œSuch a valuable cook,” said Miss Coverdale tearfully. “Such a quiet cat, and a most excellent mouser. And, Sylvia darling, if your father hadn’t gone away this morning, where on earth should we have got any fish for dinner?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I don’t know where we shall get it now,” said Sylvia.
    â€œWe shan’t,” said Miss Coverdale simply. “But of course it doesn’t matter about us. Do you know, darling, that I feel it is quite a providence that