She laid it before Mr Period.
‘I’m not quite sure if this belongs.’
He looked at it and turned pink. ‘No, no. Stupid of me. Thank you.’
He pushed it under his pad and folded the letter he had written, whistling under his breath. ‘That’s that,’ he said, with rather forced airiness. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to post it in the village.’
Nicola made a note of it and returned to her task. She became aware of suppressed nervousness in her employer. They went through the absurd pantomime of catching each other’s eyes and pretending they had done nothing of the sort. This had occurred two or three times when Nicola said: ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve got the awful trick of staring at people when I’m trying to concentrate.’
‘My dear child! No! It is I who am at fault. In point of fact,’ Mr Period went on with a faint simper, ‘I’ve been asking myself if I dare confide a little problem.’
Not knowing what to say, Nicola said nothing. Mr Period, with an air of hardihood, continued. He waved his hand.
‘It’s nothing. Rather a bore, really. Just that the – ah – the publishers are going to do something quite handsome in the way of illustrations and they – don’t laugh – they want my old mug for their frontispiece. A portrait rather than a photograph is thought to be appropriate and, I can’t imagine why, they took it for granted one had been done, do you know? And one hasn’t.’
‘What a pity,’ Nicola sympathized. ‘So it will have to be a photograph.’
‘Ah! Yes. That was my first thought. But then, you see – They made such a point of it – and I did just wonder – My friends, silly creatures, urge me to it. Just a line drawing. One doesn’t know what to think.’
It was clear to Nicola that Mr Period died to have his portrait done and was prepared to pay highly for it. He mentioned several extremely fashionable artists and then said suddenly: ‘It’s naughty of dear Agatha Troy to be so diffy about who she does. She said something about not wanting to abandon bone for bacon, I think, when she refused – she actually refused to paint –’
Here Mr Period whispered an extremely potent name and stared with a sort of dismal triumph at Nicola. ‘So she wouldn’t dream of poor old me,’ he cried. ‘’Nuff said!’
Nicola began to say: ‘I wonder, though. She often –’ and hurriedly checked herself. She had been about to commit an indiscretion. Fortunately Mr Period’s attention was diverted by the return of Andrew Bantling. He had reappeared in the drive, still walking fast and swinging his bowler, and with a fixed expression on his pleasantly bony face.
‘He has come back,’ Nicola said.
‘Andrew? Oh, good. I wonder what for.’
In a moment they found out. The door opened and Andrew looked in.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said loudly, ‘but if it’s not too trouble-some, I wonder if I could have a word with you, P.P.?’
‘My dear boy! But, of course.’
‘It’s not private from Nicola,’ Andrew said. ‘On the contrary. At the same time, I don’t want to bore anybody.’
Mr Period said playfully: ‘I myself have done nothing but bore poor Nicola. Shall we “withdraw to the withdrawing-room” and leave her in peace?’
‘Oh. All right. Thank you. Sorry.’ Andrew threw a distracted look at Nicola and opened the door.
Mr Period made her a little bow. ‘You will excuse us, my dear?’ he said and they went out.
Nicola worked on steadily and was only once interrupted. The door opened to admit a small, thin, querulous-looking gentleman who ejaculated: ‘I beg your pardon. Damn!’ and went out again. Mr Cartell, no doubt.
At eleven o’clock Alfred came in with sherry and biscuits and Mr Period’s compliments. If she was in any difficulty would she be good enough to ring and Alfred would convey the message. Nicola was not in any difficulty, but while she enjoyed her sherry she found herself scribbling absent-mindedly.
‘Good lord!’ she thought. ‘Why did I do that? A bit longer on this job and I’ll be turning into a Pyke Period myself.’
Two hours went by. The house was very quiet. She was half-aware of small local activities: distant voices and movement, the rattle and throb of machinery in the lane. She thought from time to time of her employer. To which brand of snobbery, that overworked but always enthralling subject, did Mr Pyke Period belong? Was he simply a snob of the traditional school who dearly loves a lord? Was he himself a scion of ancient lineage; one of those old, uncelebrated families whose sole claim to distinction rests in their refusal to accept a title? No. That didn’t quite fit Mr Period. It wasn’t easy to imagine him refusing a title and yet –
Her attention was again diverted to the drive. Three persons approached the house, barked at and harassed by Pixie. A large, tweedy, middle-aged woman with a red face, a squashed hat and a walking-stick, was followed by a pale girl with fashionable coiffure and a young man who looked, Nicola thought, quite awful. These two lagged behind their elder who shouted and pointed with her stick in the direction of the excavations. Nicola could hear her voice, which sounded arrogant, and her gusts of boisterous laughter. While her back was turned, the girl quickly planted an extremely uninhibited kiss on the young man’s mouth.
‘That,’ thought Nicola, ‘is a full-treatment job.’
Pixie floundered against the young man and he kicked her rapidly in the ribs. She emitted a howl and retired. The large woman looked round in concern but the young man was smiling damply. They moved round the corner of the house. Through the side window Nicola could see them inspecting the excavations. They returned to the drive.
Footsteps crossed the hall. Doors were opened. Mr Cartell appeared in the drive and was greeted by the lady who, Nicola saw, resembled him in a robust fashion. ‘The sister,’ Nicola said. ‘Connie. And the adopted niece, Moppett, and the niece’s frightful friend. I don’t wonder Mr Period was put out.’
They moved out of sight. There was a burst of conversation in the hall, in which Mr Period’s voice could be heard, and a withdrawal (into the ‘withdrawing-room’, no doubt). Presently Andrew Bantling came into the library.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘I’m to bid you to drinks. I don’t mind telling you it’s a bum party. My bloody-minded step-father, to whom I’m not speaking, his bully of a sister, her ghastly adopted what-not and an unspeakable chum. Come on.’
‘Do you think I might be excused and just creep in to lunch?’
‘Not a hope. P.P. would be as cross as two sticks. He’s telling them all about you and how lucky he is to have you.’
‘I don’t want a drink. I’ve been built up with sherry.’
‘There’s tomato juice. Do come. You’d better.’
‘In that case –’ Nicola said and put the cover on her typewriter.
‘That’s right,’ he said and took her arm. ‘I’ve had such a stinker of a morning: you can’t think. How have you got on?’
‘I hope, all right.’
‘Is he writing a