Free Nothing Venture by Patricia Wentworth Page A

afraid, on account of the warning, but because our agreeable conversation didn’t leave me time to walk. I see Page. I walk uneventfully to Carrington Square and put on my best clawhammer. I then stroll across the square to the cab-rack, and just as I’m turning the corner a car swerves to avoid a dog and sends me spinning. If I hadn’t seen him out of the tail of my eye and jumped for it, I’m afraid you’d have had to dine tête-à-tête with F.F.”
    â€œAre you hurt?” said Nan quickly and irrepressibly.
    â€œThe clawhammer is a wreck. That’s what made me late. I had to fall back on my reserve, which won’t really stand daylight.”
    â€œYour arm—” said Nan.
    â€œA messy cut, efficiently bandaged by Jenks, who would be perfectly happy if I would arrange to have a minor accident once or twice a week to keep his hand in. He was a great performer with a first field dressing during the war, and complains that he’s getting rusty. He buttles rather under protest.”
    Nan swept Jenks away with an impulsive movement.
    â€œDid you see the driver of the car that knocked you over?”
    â€œI did not,” said Jervis. “I saw nothing except a lot of very fine coloured stars, and when I stopped seeing them, there was no driver to see.”
    â€œHe didn’t wait?”
    â€œHe did not.”
    â€œAnd you call that a coincidence!” There was a fine scorn in her voice.
    â€œI think we will both call it a coincidence,” said Jervis. His tone was light, cool, and even.
    Nan took a breath and sat back. She felt easily, coolly, airily put in her place. Her place was a long way off. It certainly didn’t entitle her to make suggestions about Miss Carew and Mr Leonard.
    By the time they reached the Luxe she had herself in hand. Jervis talked pleasantly and lightly all the way; she had only to sit in her corner and listen.
    Mr Ferdinand Fazackerley was waiting for them in the lounge. He looked very odd in evening dress. The clawhammer was not only an archaic model, but it looked as if he had made a habit of sleeping in it for years. His white tie was an obvious jemima. Beneath the electric light his hair was like a newly scraped carrot. His bright darting eyes welcomed Nan, and dwelt affectionately on Jervis. A prolonged handshaking attested his enthusiasm.
    â€œThis is great!” he said, and went on saying it at intervals whist he piloted them to a reserved table in the famous Gold Room.
    He had an eager, affectionate manner that was pure balm to Nan. For the first time, she could see herself as Jervis’ wife. F.F.’s admiring gaze approved her. It darted from her to Jervis, and told Jervis that he was a lucky man. It came back to Nan with a twinkling appreciation of just how delightful a thing it must be to be Jervis’ wife.
    â€œIf you folks aren’t hungry, you can go home. My last meal is way back so far that I’ve lost touch with it so to speak. I’m going right through this menu—and I won’t say that I mightn’t have a second helping here and there, just to fill up the corners. I’ve felt hungrier, but I’ve never felt greedier. It’s a good menu.” He skidded off into the story of how he once walked from Vienna to Berlin without a cent.
    Nan enjoyed her dinner very much. With her first mouthful of food she realized that, like Ferdinand, she had rather lost touch with her last meal—it had not been much of a meal either. When you are tired and unhappy, you are apt not to notice how little you are eating—and Mrs Warren’s cooking was not calculated to tempt a halting appetite. It was rather like a dream to be wearing a pretty frock and dining at the Luxe. In a dream there is no past and no future. She gave herself up to the dream, and a reviving tide of happiness rose in her and blotted out everything except the present.
    She watched a new Jervis. She had never