Free Thirteen Guests by J Jefferson Farjeon

that any one in Bragley Court should have to shout for service made John smile.
    The dark lawn outside the window sheltered by the long ballroom wing—had the ballroom been a lecture-hall and the ante-room less luxuriously furnished, he might have fancied himself back in college, staring out into the dark quadrangle where studious figures flitted not always with studious thoughts—had contributed to the sense of mental repose.
    Then the peace had been broken. Guests, impelled by kindness or curiosity, had paid him short visits, or popped their heads in to give him a word or a smile. Apart from Harold Taverley, the men had fought rather shy of him, but the women had formed an intermittent procession. Mrs. Rowe had introduced her daughter, Ruth, who had been thoroughly unmodern and had blushed rather painfully. Miss Fermoy-Jones, on the other hand, had been quite unblushing, and during ten boring minutes had contrived to mention the titles of six of the sixteen mystery novels she had written. “Of course, they’re terrible stuff, really,” she had gushed, when she had become mistakenly convinced that she would not be believed, “but if people demand a thing, what are you to do? And just as you can write a bad psychological novel, I suppose you can write a good detective story. Lift your readers up, I say, and it doesn’t really matter where you start from—if you understand what I mean, Mr. Foss. But I mustn’t make your head ache by talking literature!” Lady Aveling had introduced Zena Wilding. Maybe she had hoped Zena would stay, but this interview had ended rather abruptly when the actress had suddenly noticed Lord Aveling in the doorway, and had whispered confidentially, “I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go and talk shop, but perhaps I’ll see you again later.” Anne, too, had paid him a second visit.
    But Nadine Leveridge had kept away, and during the intervals of the procession John had visualised her in the ballroom, from which music faintly floated. He visualised her with painful clearness and struggled not to.…And he was struggling not to now, when she appeared, and caught his expression.
    If she had been dancing, there was little sign of it.
    She looked as neat as when he had last seen her, and the double row of pearls lay against smooth, cool skin.
    â€œShall I go?” she asked with disarming bluntness.
    â€œGo? Good Lord, no!” he exclaimed. “Why on earth?”
    â€œYou look worried.” His mind raced for the right answer, but her mind raced his. “I expect your foot’s still giving you the devil.”
    â€œJust a bit.”
    â€œSo I will go. You’d rather be alone. I know you’ve had a string of visitors. Good-night.”
    â€œI say—you’re not—wait a minute—you’re not really going, are you?”
    â€œYou’re quite sure you don’t want me to?”
    â€œI should hate you to!”
    â€œWell, after all, I didn’t really come here just to turn round and go back again,” she smiled.
    She entered the room and walked towards the window. A dog across the dark lawn was barking.
    â€œHaig’s a bit restless to-night,” she remarked. “Haig is our watch-dog, and Lord Aveling’s method of keeping the Great War green. Though why anybody wants to keep a war green I’ve never learned.” She pulled the long curtains across the window, shutting out the lawn and muffling Haig’s war-cry. Then she rolled a large green silk pouffe towards the couch and sat beside him. “What do we talk about, Mr. Foss? Things that matter, or things that don’t?”
    â€œI’ll leave the choice to you,” he hedged. “But perhaps cabbages and kings would be the safest.”
    â€œSafest?”
    He turned red. What a fool he was! What a blundering ass! Usually he was rather good at conversation, but now he could not even talk of cabbages and kings