Free Love & Mrs. Sargent by Patrick Dennis Page B

for reader interest.”
    “There’s nothing in this book to be controversial about. It’s just a badly written bore.”
    “Hmmm,” Mr. Malvern said. Then, on a cheerier note, he added, “Well, here we are!”

XI.
     
    Sheila stepped out of the shop laden with parcels. Having found one dress for Allison, she found another and then another. Then she’d been entranced by a belt and two blouses and a cardigan and a suede coat. She’d held them all up to herself and was pleased with the general effect. Sheila felt that what was good on her would be just fine on her daughter.
    The car was gone and Sheila was fit to be tied before it appeared.
    “ I thought I asked you to wait, Taylor,” she said evenly.
    “Cop wouldn’t let me wait any more, Miz Sargent,” he said, piling the parcels onto the front seat. “I driven around the block ten, twelve times.”
    “Dear, it is late,” Sheila said. “Here, Taylor. You get in back. I’ll drive. You’re always afraid of getting a ticket.” She threw her sables into the rear with Taylor and took the wheel. “We’ll be home by five. I’ll bet you anything.”

XII.
     
    Mrs. Flood was in a perfect pet. It had been more than an hour since Miss Roseberry had called to announce Mr. Malvern’s imminent arrival and there wasn’t a soul here yet. No Mr. Malvern, no reporter and—even worse—no Mrs. Sargent.
    Mrs. Flood had scampered around the office lighting lamps and plumping pillows, moving ashtrays an inch this way and an inch that way. She had drawn the curtains and then decided that the setting sun was too pretty to hide. So she had opened the curtains once more and extinguished all the lights, plumped the cushions again, tidied the desk and then—deciding that it looked too tidy to be real—messed it up a bit.
    In her nervousness she had smoked half a dozen cigarettes, spilling ashes onto the carpet and then trying to erase their traces with ineffectual shufflings of her pseudo-alligator pumps. She had pulled her girdle down so many times that her stockingshad begun to droop, calling for immediate repair work with the garters. Now she could hardly walk for the discomfort.
    She had fluffed her bangs until she looked like an old sheep dog and chewed off two coats of lipstick. Still she held the fort alone. It was now twenty minutes past four, if her wristwatch, the cartel clock on the wall, the mantel clock in the drawing room, the case clock in the hall, the carriage clock in the library, the bracket clock in the dining room, the electric clock in the kitchen and the telephone company—all of which Mrs. Flood had consulted—could be believed, and still no sign of Mr. Malvern or Mrs. Sargent. She considered calling the police to report two ghastly automobile accidents but thought better of it, not knowing the exact location of either wreckage.
    “My heart just can’t stand this sort of suspense,” Mrs. Flood whimpered. Actually, she had the constitution of an ox, but Mrs. Flood harked back to a period when good health was con sidered vulgar, a delicate constitution patrician. “I’ll simply have to calm myself.” Stealthily, she reached out through the gloom for the brandy decanter. (That pretty setting sun had now disappeared entirely, leaving the office as dark as a cave, but Mrs. Flood was too distraught to notice.) Just as her hand found the faceted stopper the doorbell rang. With a clanging of Waterford glass Mrs. Flood jumped to her feet.
    “Bertha! Bertha’” she cawed. “The doorbell.”
    “I hear it, Mrs. Flood,” Bertha said, walking down the hall.
    Cowering in the office, Mrs. Flood could hear J. Howard Malvern being unconvincingly hearty. “Well, here we are, Johnson. Good evening, Bertha.”
    Mrs. Flood rallied her forces. “Woo-hoo! Mr. Malvern. Here in the office. Oh, Bertha, would you please take Mr. uh . . . the gentleman’s suitcase?”
    Mr. Malvern and an indistinct figure peered in from the lighted hallway. “Where are you,