Free Mr. Zero by Patricia Wentworth

had reached a point of which it was a fiery torment to himself and a source of extreme boredom to everyone else. Muriel’s reactions those of the eternal feminine—a desire to prod, to poke, to stir the fire, and drop fresh fuel on the flame. Giles was hating her, and Linda despising him. The talk leapt flashing to and fro from pointed tongues.
    Nobody said anything more about Algy. He was grateful, but he wondered why, discerning ultimately a queer substratum of loyalty that closed the ranks—and the tongues—against the outsider. Because Brewster—well there he was, just Brewster, Monty’s Industrious Apprentice, not quite one of themselves. Algy would be thrown only to his own wolf pack to rend. And who said dog didn’t eat dog? Wait and see.

X
    Masses of people came in after dinner. They played darts, and shove-halfpenny, and the ancient, never-dying games of Love and Scandal in their most up-to-date forms—fewer words to the game, but the same call of the eye, the same lift of the eyebrow that beckoned a man or killed a reputation in Egypt, Greece or Rome two thousand years ago.
    Sylvia couldn’t throw a dart straight to save her life. She regarded shove-halfpenny with horror. Why handle coppers if you hadn’t got to? She didn’t play the other games either. Algy took her to the window, lifted a bright green curtain, and let it fall again behind them.
    â€œLook out here. Wait a minute till you can see. It’s worth while.”
    They looked down as from a cliff on the dark tops of trees, all dark, all blurred, all moving in a wind which made no sound. More trees. Black houses away on the other side of the square, with bright lines showing here and there where a blind fell short or a curtain did not meet and just one window high up, bright and bare, with a black shadow coming and going in the room behind. And the river away to the left. Lights on it, moving lights, and a dark, slow stream, and the line of houses beyond, like an escarpment, blank and sheer.
    To look out like this at night was to be soothed, consoled, assured of things immeasurably old and permanent—London—the river—trees and clouds—houses where people kindled fires from the same flame of hope which burned for ever and did not burn away. Things went on. You were up against it, you sweated blood, you won perhaps. And the game went on. Meanwhile this moment was good. Seen, Sylvia delighted and satisfied the eye. Unseen, she had the gift of silence. She stood with her shoulder touching his and leaned a little upon the sill, but did not speak. The good moment was shared. At least that is how it seemed to Algy. He heard the faintest of faint sighs, and thought it a tribute to the night.
    â€œIt’s pretty good, isn’t it?” he said.
    â€œAll those trees—and the river—like the country—” But her voice was flat.
    A most horrible suspicion entered Algy’s mind.
    â€œDon’t you like the country?”
    â€œOh, no.” Surprise enlived her tone. ‘Oh, no, I hate it—don’t you? Especially in the dark. Why, I lived in the country for years. It was dreadful. We hadn’t even got a car, and I do hate walking. I think I’d like to go back into the room if you don’t mind—I do rather hate the dark.”
    Algy held the curtain and saw her pass beyond it. The light caught her gold hair and her gold dress as she went. But he did not follow her. He had been going to ask her about the Wessex-Gardners’ week-end party, but there would be time for that. He dropped the curtain, and turned to the river again. The moment had not been shared after all, but it was still good.
    From behind him, in a sudden fierce whisper, came the voice of Cedric Blake.
    â€œMuriel, it’s no use—I can’t stand it—you’ll have to!”
    The whisper broke, and close by the curtain the red-haired girl laughed under her