There was only one person in College who had worn a trailing frock that evening, and that was Miss Hillyard. She walked in the Fellows’ Garden for an hour and a half.

18

Lor’!” said the Dean.

She gazed with interest from the Senior Common Room window, teacup in hand.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Miss Allison.

“ Who is that incredibly beautiful young man?”

“Flaxman’s fiancé, I expect, isn’t it?”

“A beautiful young man?” said Miss Pyke. “I should like to see him.” She moved to the window.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Dean. “I know Flaxman’s Byron by heart. This is an ash-blond in a House blazer.”

“Oh, dear me!” said Miss Pyke. “Apollo Belvedere in spotless flannels. He appears to be unattached. Remarkable.”

Harriet put down her cup and rose from the depths of the largest armchair.

“Perhaps he belongs to that bunch playing tennis,” hazarded Miss Allison.

“Little Cooke’s scrubby friends? My dear!”

“Why all the excitement, anyway?” asked Miss Hillyard.

“Beautiful young men are always exciting,” said the Dean.

“That,” said Harriet, at length getting a glimpse of the wonder-youth over Miss Pyke’s shoulder, “is Viscount Saint-George.”

“Another of your aristocratic friends?” asked Miss Barton.

“His nephew,” replied Harriet; not very coherently.

“Oh!” said Miss Barton. “Well, I don’t see why you need all gape at him like a lot of schoolgirls.”

She crossed over to the table, cut herself a slice of cake and glanced casually out of the farther window.

Lord Saint-George stood, with a careless air of owning the place, at the corner of the Library Wing, watching a game of tennis being played between two bare-backed students and two young men whose shirts kept on escaping from their belts. Growing tired of this, he sauntered past the windows towards Queen Elizabeth, his eye roving over a group of Shrewsburians a-sprawl under the beeches, like that of a young Sultan inspecting a rather unpromising consignment of Circassian slaves.

“Supercilious little beast!” thought Harriet; and wondered if he was looking for her. If he was, he could wait, or ask properly at the Lodge.

“Oho!” said the Dean. “So that’s how the milk got into the coconut!”

From the door of the Library Wing there issued slowly Miss de Vine, and behind her, grave and deferential, Lord Peter Wimsey. They skirted the tennis-court in earnest conversation. Lord Saint-George, viewing them from afar, advanced to meet them. They joined forces on the path. They stood for a little time talking. They moved away towards the Lodge.

“Dear me!” said the Dean. “Abduction of Helen de Vine by Paris and Hector.”

“No, no,” said Miss Pyke. “Paris was the brother of Hector, not his nephew. I do not think he had any uncles.”

“Talking of uncles,” said the Dean, “is it true. Miss Hillyard, that Richard III-I thought she was here.”

“She was here,” said Harriet.

“Helen is being returned to us,” said the Dean. “The siege of Troy is postponed.”

The trio were returning again up the path. Half-way along Miss de Vine took leave of the two men and returned towards her own room.

At that moment, the watchers in the S.C.R. were petrified to behold a portent. Miss Hillyard emerged from the foot of the Hall stair, bore down upon the uncle and nephew, addressed them, cut Lord Peter neatly off from his convoy and towed him firmly away towards the New Quad.

“Glory alleluia!” said the Dean. “Hadn’t you better go out and rescue your young friend? He’s been deserted again.”

“You could offer him a cup of tea,” suggested Miss Pyke. “It would be an agreeable diversion for us.”

“I’m surprised at you, Miss Pyke,” said Miss Barton. “No man is safe from women like you.”

“Now, where have I heard that sentiment before?” said the Dean.

“In one of the Poison-letters,” said Harriet.

“If you’re suggesting-” began Miss Barton.

“I’m only suggesting,” said the Dean, “that it’s a bit of a cliché.”

“I meant it for a joke,” retorted Miss Barton, angrily. “Some people have no sense of humour.”

She went out and slammed the door. Lord Saint-George had wandered back and was sitting in the loggia leading up to the Library. He rose politely as Miss Barton stalked past him on the way to her room, and made some remark, to which the Fellow replied briefly, but with a smile.

“Insinuating men, these Wimseys,” said the Dean. “Vamping the S.C.R. right and left.”

Harriet laughed, but in Saint-George’s quick, appraising glance at Miss Barton she had again seen his uncle look for a moment out of his eyes. These family resemblances were unnerving. She curled herself into the window-seat and watched for nearly ten minutes. The viscount sat still, smoking a cigarette, and looking entirely at his ease. Miss Lydgate, Miss Burrows and Miss Shaw came in and began to pour out tea. The tennis-party finished the set and moved away. Then, from the left, came a quick, light step along the gravel walk.

“Hullo!” said Harriet to the owner of the step.

“Hullo!” said Peter. “Fancy seeing you here!” He grinned. “Come and talk to Gerald. He’s in the loggia.”

“I see him quite plainly,” said Harriet. “His profile has been much admired.”

“As a good adopted aunt, why didn’t you go and be kind to the poor lad?”

“I never was one to interfere. I keep myself to myself.”

“Well, come now.”

Harriet got down from the window-seat and joined Wimsey outside.

“I brought him here,” said Peter, “to see if he could make any identifications. But he doesn’t seem able to.”

Lord Saint-George greeted Harriet enthusiastically.

“There was another female went past me,” he said, turning to Peter. “Grey hair badly bobbed. Earnest manner. Dressed in sack-cloth. Institutional touch about her. I got speech of her.”

“Miss Barton,” said Harriet.

“Right sort of eyes; wrong sort of voice. I don’t think it’s her. It might be the one that collared you, Uncle. She had a kind of a lean and hungry look.

“H’m!” said Peter. “How about the first one?”

“I’d like to see her without her glasses.”

“If you mean Miss de Vine,” said Harriet, “I doubt whether she could see very far without them.”

“That’s a point,” said Peter, thoughtfully.

“I’m sorry to be so vague and all that,” said Lord Saint-George. “But it’s not easy to identify a hoarse whisper and a pair of eyes seen once by moonlight.”

“No,” said Peter, “it needs a good deal of practice.”

“Practice be blowed,” retorted his nephew. “I’m not going to make a practice of it.”

“It’s not a bad sport,” said Peter. “You might take it up till you can start games again.”

“How’s the shoulder getting on?” inquired Harriet.

“Oh, not too bad, thanks. The massage bloke is working wonders with it. I can lift the old arm shoulder-high now. It’s quite serviceable-for some things.”

By way of demonstration he threw the damaged arm round Harriet’s shoulders, and kissed her rapidly and expertly before she could dodge him. “Children, children!” cried his uncle, plaintively, “remember where you are.”

“It’s all right for me,” said Lord Saint-George. “I’m an adopted nephew. Isn’t that right, Aunt Harriet?”

“Not bang underneath the windows of the S.C.R.,” said Harriet.

“Come round the corner, then,” said the viscount, impenitently, “and I’ll do it again. As Uncle Peter says, these things need a good deal of practice.” He was impudently set upon tormenting his uncle, and Harriet felt extremely angry with him. However, to show annoyance was to play into his hands. She smiled upon him pityingly and uttered the Brasenose porter’s classic rebuke: