Free Mr. Zero by Patricia Wentworth Page A

breath.
    â€œYou’re driving me mad!”
    â€œI? You’re driving yourself.” Her voice was cool and scornful.
    The curtain swayed inwards. Algy thought there was a snatched embrace. He thought he ought to say that he was there. He thought he had better not. Muriel’s voice came in a pricking undertone.
    â€œIf you do that again—”
    â€œWhat will you do?”
    She gave a sudden melting laugh.
    â€œI really don’t know. Come and throw a dart.”
    Algy heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to lift the curtain and emerge, when he heard his own name. Mary Carster said with tears in her voice,
    â€œIt’s perfectly horrible. How can they? I love Algy.”
    â€œBless you, my dear,” said Algy to himself. The refrain of a pleasanter song than Gilderoy hummed itself in his mind:
    â€œKind, kind and gentle is she,
    Kind is my Mary.”
    It was James who was with her, and the inarticulate James was moved to reply,
    â€œSo do I. Rotten! I say, darling, you can’t cry here. Do hold up.”
    â€œI’m not crying.”
    They moved away.
    Algy stood frowning behind the curtain. As bad as that, was it? He heard Sylvia say sweetly and wearily,
    â€œOh, Mr. Brewster—how kind! I would love a chair. I don’t think I like sitting on the floor very much. You see, I don’t want to spoil my dress.”
    â€œIt’s a very beautiful dress,” said the earnest voice of Cyril Brewster. “It is almost worthy, if I may say so, of its wearer.”
    Algy controlled an inward spasm. What a fatuous ass Brewster was. No, not fatuous—that wasn’t the right word at all. Simple, earnest, Victorian, bromidic—these were all much better adjectives.
    â€œThat’s very nice of you,” said Sylvia with evident pleasure.
    This was the moment for Algy to come out. He meant to. He was going to. But the temptation to hear more of Cyril in a complimentary mood was too much for him. With his hand on the curtain he dallied, and was rewarded.
    â€œThere is a very beautiful line in the Idylls of the King ,” pursued Mr. Brewster—“an extremely beautiful line in which someone—a man I think—expresses himself to the effect that he that loves beauty should go beautifully. I am almost sure that it was a man, and that the lady’s name was Enid, in which case it was from the poem entitled Enid and Geraint . I cannot be entirely certain that my memory is accurate, as it is a good many years since I opened my Tennyson.”
    â€œI have a dreadful memory too,” said Sylvia comfortably.
    Algy blessed her, and would have given a good deal to see Cyril’s face. He ought to come out though, he ought to come out.
    His hand went to the curtain and stayed there, because Sylvia was saying,
    â€œIs there something wrong about Mr. Somers? I thought he was so nice.”
    On any other night of any other month Algy would have taken that cue, bowed with hand on heart, and most convincingly have guaranteed his niceness. But not tonight, not with this damnable thing hanging over him. He stayed where he was, and heard Brewster, politely embarrassed.
    â€œOh, there’s nothing, Lady Colesborough—nothing at all. I really don’t know who could have given you such an impression.”
    â€œLinda,” said Sylvia—“Mrs. Westgate, you know. I said how much I liked him and I thought I’d ask him to go to the Kensingtons’ dance next week, and she said better not, and Francis wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t say why—and I did like him so much.”
    â€œOh, but I assure you—”
    Algy began to edge away towards the second window. He lost Cyril’s embarrassed defence, but he managed to emerge from behind the end curtain without being noticed.
    Sylvia sat lightly on one of the chromium-plated chairs in her golden dress. Mr. Brewster occupied a jade-green cushion at her feet. Neither