‘Certainly, Miss Twitterton.’ The social solecism had been committed and could not now be redeemed. He received the basket with the condescending kindness due from my lord’s butler to a humble dependant of the house.

‘The Buff Orpingtons,’ explained Miss Twitterton. ‘They-they lay such pretty brown eggs, don’t they? And I thought, perhaps-’

‘Her ladyship will greatly appreciate the attention. Would you care to wait?’

‘Oh, thank you… I hardly know…’

‘I am expecting them back very shortly. From the vicarage.’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Twitterton. ‘Yes.’ She sat down rather helplessly on the proffered chair. ‘I meant just to hand the basket to Mrs Ruddle, but she seems very much put about.’

Crutchley gave a short laugh. He had made one or two attempts at escape; but Bunter and Miss Twitterton were between him and the door, and now he appeared to resign himself. Bunter seemed glad of the opportunity for an explanation.

‘I have been very much put about. Miss Twitterton. Mrs Ruddle has violently agitated all his lordship’s vintage port, just as it was settling down nicely after the journey.’

‘Oh, how dreadful!’ cried Miss Twitterton, her sympathetic mind grasping that the disaster, however incomprehensible, was of the first magnitude. ‘Is it all spoilt? I believe they have some very good port wine at the Pig and Whistle-only it’s rather expensive-4s. 6d. a bottle and nothing on the empties.’

‘I fear,’ said Bunter, ‘that would scarcely meet the case.’

‘Or if they would like some of my parsnip wine I should be delighted to-’

‘Huh!’ said Crutchley. He jerked this thumb at the bottle in Bunter’s arms. ‘What does that stand his nibs in for?’ Bunter could bear no more. He turned to go.

Two hundred and four shillings the dozen!’

‘Cripes!’ said Crutchley. Miss Twitterton could not believe her ears.

‘The dozen what?’

‘Bottles!’ said Bunter. He went out shattered, with drooping shoulders, and shut the door decisively.

Miss Twitterton, reckoning rapidly on her fingers, turned in dismay to Crutchley, who stood with a derisive smile, making no further effort to avoid the interview. ‘Two hundred and four-seventeen shillings a bottle! Oh, it’s impossible! It’s… it’s wicked!’

‘Yes. Cut above you and me, ain’t it? Bah! There’s a chap could give away forty pound out of his pocket and never miss it. But does he? No!’

He strolled over to the hearth and spat eloquently into the fire.

‘Oh, Frank! You mustn’t be so bitter. You couldn’t expect Lord Peter-’

‘“Lord Peter”!-who’ve you to be calling him by his pet name? Think you’re somebody, don’t you?’

‘That is the correct way to speak of him,’ said Miss Twitterton, drawing herself up a little. ‘I know quite well how to address people of rank.’

‘Oh. yes!’ replied the gardener, sarcastically, ‘I dessay. And you say “Mister” to his blasted valet. Come off it, my girl. It’s “me lord” for you, same as for the rest of us… I know your mother was a school-teacher, all right. And your father was old Ted Baker’s cow-man. If she married beneath ’er, it ain’t nothing to be stuck up about.’

I’m sure’-Miss Twitterton’s voice trembled-‘you’re the last person that ought to say such a thing to me.’

Crutchley’s face lowered. ‘That’s it, is it? Tryin’ to make out you been lowerin’ yourself by associating with me, eh? All right! You go and hobnob with the gentry. Lord Peter!’

He thrust his hands deep down in his pockets and strode irritably towards the window. His determination to work up a quarrel was so evident that even Miss Twitterton could not mistake it. It could have only one explanation. With fatal archness, she wagged a reproving finger.

‘Why, Frank, you silly old thing! I believe you’re jealous!’

‘Jealous!’ He looked at her and began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, though it showed all his teeth. ‘That’s good! That’s rich, that is! What’s the idea? Startin’ to make eyes at his lordship now?’

‘Frank! He’s a married man. How can you say such things?’

‘Oh, he’s married all right. Tied up good and proper. ’Ead well in the noose. “Yes, darling!” “No, darling!” “Cuddle me quick, darling.” Pretty, ain’t it?’

Miss Twitterton thought it was pretty, and said so.

‘I’m sure it’s beautiful to see two people so devoted to one another.’

‘Quite a romance in ’igh life. Like to be in ’er shoes, wouldn’t you?’

‘You don’t really think I’d want to change places with anybody?’ cried Miss Twitterton. ‘But oh, Frank! If only you and I could get married at once.’

‘Ah, yes!’ said Crutchley, with a kind of satisfaction. ‘Your Uncle Noakes has put a bit of a spoke in that wheel, ain’t ’e?’

‘Oh!-I’ve been trying all day to see you and talk over what we were to do.’

‘What we’re going to do?’

‘It isn’t for myself, Frank. I’d work my fingers to the bone for you.’

‘And a fat lot o’ good that ’ud do. ’Ow about my garridge? If it ’adn’t a-been for your soft soap I’d a-got my forty quid out o’ the old devil months ago.’

Miss Twitterton quailed before his angry eyes. ‘Oh, please don’t be so angry with me. We couldn’t either of us know. And oh!-there’s another terrible thing-’

‘What’s up now?’

‘I-I-I’d been saving up a little bit-just a little here and there, you know-and I’d got close on £50 put away in the savings bank.’

‘Fifty pounds, eh?’ said Crutchley, his tone softening a little. ‘Well, that’s a tidy little bit…’

‘I meant it for the garage. It was to be a surprise for you-’

‘Well, and what’s gone wrong with it?’ The sight of her imploring eyes and twitching, bony hands brought back his irritation. ‘Post-office gone bust?’

‘I-I-I lent it to Uncle. He said he was short-people hadn’t paid their bills-’

‘Well,’ said Crutchley, with impatience, ‘you got a receipt for it, I suppose.’ Excitement seized him. ‘That’s your money. They can’t get at that. You ’ave it out o’ them-you got a receipt for it. You give me the receipt and I’ll settle with that MacBride. That’ll cover my forty quid, anyhow.’

‘But I never thought to ask Uncle for a receipt. Not between relations. How could I?’

‘You never thought-? Nothing on paper-? Of all the blasted fools-!’

‘Oh, Frank dear. I’m so sorry. Everything seems to have gone wrong. But you know, you never dreamt, any more than I did-’

‘No, or I’d ’ave acted a bit different, I can tell you.’ He ground his teeth savagely and struck a log on the hearth with his heel so that the sparks flew.

Miss Twitterton watched him miserably. Then a new hope came to sustain her. ‘Frank, listen! Perhaps Lord Peter might lend you the money to start the garage. He’s ever so rich.’

Crutchley considered this. Born rich and born soft were to him the same thing. It was possible, if he made a good impression-though it did mean truckling to a blasted title. ‘That’s a fact,’ he admitted. ‘He might.’

In a rosy flush. Miss Twitterton saw the possibility as an accomplished fact. Her eager wishes flew ahead into a brilliant future.

‘I’m sure he would. We could get married at once, and have that little corner cottage-you know-on the main road, where you said-and there’d be ever so many cars stopping there. And I could help quite a lot with my Buff Orpingtons!’

‘You and your Buff Orpingtons!’

‘And I could give piano-lessons again. I know I could get pupils. There’s the stationmaster’s little Elsie-’

‘Little Elsie’s bottom! Now, see here, Aggie, it’s time we got down to brass tacks. You and me getting spliced with the idea of coming into your uncle’s money-that was one thing, see! That’s business. But if there’s no money from you, it’s off. You get that?’

Miss Twitterton uttered a faint bleat. He went on, brutally: ‘A man that’s starting in life wants a wife, see? A nice little bit to come ’ome to. Some’un he can cuddle-not a skinny old hen with a brood o’ Buff Orpingtons.’