Free Enough to Kill a Horse by Elizabeth Ferrars Page A

said, holding out her hand.
    Sir Peter Poulter took it in his, then lowering his head to avoid knocking it in the low doorway, he stepped inside.
    At that moment Clare appeared from the kitchen, holding out before her the dish of lobster patties.

CHAPTER SIX
    Fanny introduced them to each other as they stood in the narrow, stone-flagged passage. She was used to Clare’s odd behaviour on meeting strangers and when Clare fixed a peculiarly intent and curious stare on Sir Peter’s face and said not a word in answer to his greeting, but went on holding out the dish in front of her, as if she expected him to help himself then and there, Fanny was not much put out. She had done what Clare had asked, arranging a meeting for her with Sir Peter. What Clare chose to do about it now was her own affair.
    Fanny led them into the sitting room.
    Whatever Clare’s motives for desiring the meeting might be, it was apparent that she had dressed for it with greater care than usual. She was wearing her black velvet. This was a garment that she had owned for at least ten years and that she brought out only on very special occasions. It had a full skirt that reached almost to her ankles and a queer little short jacket with old garnet buttons on it. Some precious lace, held by a garnet brooch, fell over the collar of the jacket. For once Clare was wearing high heels and a little powder and lipstick, while a very beautiful little bead bag dangled on a thin gold chain from her arm. The result she had achieved somehow emphasized her usual look of being an underpaid, exceedingly genteel governess, a governess who just now was painstakingly dressed up in her best. At the same time it had that quality of unconscious distinction that never deserted her.
    Sir Peter expressed his pleasure at meeting a writer whose work he so much admired, at which Clare looked startled and embarrassed, as if she did not really believe that he could ever have heard of her. But as Fanny poured out drinks for them, he went on to speak of certain characters in her books with genuine acquaintance. Clare at first responded with a look of pain and confusion, but by degrees allowed herself to enjoy the pleasure of accepting his praise and beamed and almost trembled with happiness.
    There was a quiet directness about his way of speaking, a simplicity and informality that expressed very pleasantly as great self-assurance. He was a strikingly handsome old man, though his face was deeply lined, while his heavy brow had the waxen look of extreme age or of serious illness and his eyes, shadowed by shaggy white eyebrows, were restless. The big hand, on which the skin looked dry and lifeless, holding the glass that Fanny had brought to him, was not quite steady.
    The next guest to arrive was Mrs McLean, the doctor’s wife. Her husband, she explained, had been called out to attend to a boy who had fallen off a bicycle, but if he was through with the boy in time, would look in later. She was a pleasant, talkative woman, whom it was strange to see, Fanny thought, without gardening gloves and a pair of sécateurs in her hand. Fastening on Basil, who had come downstairs just before she arrived, she plunged into a discussion with him of the best position in her garden for a certain lilac bush. She was always seeking counsel about this bush, which had already been moved a number of times, but which had never yet prospered as in her view it should have done.
    Soon she was asking Sir Peter his opinion about it. To Fanny’s surprise, he appeared to be as interested in lilac bushes as in Clare Forwood’s books, and seemed sufficiently knowledgeable about them to earn Mrs McLean’s high approval.
    It was the same presently with Kit, who came in rather late and with a show of reluctance at appearing at all. Laura’s headache, he said, was still very bad and she could not possibly come down yet. Sir Peter spoke to him about Laura, showing that he remembered having met her and appearing to take