‘Oh, forgive me-I didn’t know-I never meant-’ The remembrance of her own misery got the upper hand of her alarm. ‘Oh, I’m so dreadfully unhappy.’

‘I think,’ said Peter, ‘I had better see about decanting the port.’

He retreated quickly and quietly, without waiting to shut the door. But the ominous words had penetrated to Miss Twitter-ton’s consciousness. A new terror checked her tears in mid-flow.

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear! The port wine! Now he’ll be angry again.’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Harriet, completely bewildered.

‘What has gone wrong? What is it all about?’

Miss Twitterton shuddered. A cry of ‘Bunter!’ in the passage warned her that the crisis was imminent.

‘Mrs Ruddle has done something dreadful to the port wine.’

‘Oh, my poor Peter!’ said Harriet. She listened anxiously. Bunter’s voice now, subdued to a long, explanatory mumble.

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!’ moaned Miss Twitterton,

‘But what can the woman have done?’

Miss Twitterton really was not sure.

‘I believe she’s shaken the bottle,’ she faltered. ‘Oh!’

A loud yelp of anguish rent the air within. Peter’s voice lilted to a wail:

‘What! all my pretty chickens and their dam?’

The last word sounded to Miss Twitterton painfully like an oath. ‘O-o-oh! I do hope he won’t be violent.’

‘Violent?’ said Harriet, half amused and half angry. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so.’

But alarm is infectious, and much-tried men have been known to vent their exasperation upon their servants. The two women clung together, waiting for the explosion.

‘Well,’ said the distant voice, ‘all I can say is, Bunter, don’t let it happen again… All right… Good God, man, you needn’t tell me that… of course you didn’t… We’d better go and view the bodies.’

The sounds died away, and the women breathed more freely. The dreadful menace of male violence lifted its shadow from the house.

‘Well!’ said Harriet, ‘that wasn’t so bad after all… My dear Miss Twitterton, what is the matter? You’re trembling all over… Surely, surely you didn’t really think Peter was going to-to throw things about or anything, did you? Come and sit down by the fire. Your hands are like ice.’

Miss Twitterton allowed herself to be led to the settle.

‘I’m sorry-it was silly of me. But… I’m always so terrified of… gentlemen being angry… and… and… after all, they’re all men, aren’t they?… and men are so horrible!’

The end of the sentence came out in a shuddering burst. Harriet realised that there was more here than poor Uncle William or a couple of dozen of port.

‘Dear Miss Twitterton, what is the trouble? Can I help?

Has somebody been horrible to you?’

Sympathy was too much for Miss Twitterton. She clutched at the kindly hands. ‘Oh, my lady, my lady-I’m ashamed to tell you. He said such dreadful things to me. Oh, please forgive me!’

‘Who did?’ asked Harriet, sitting down beside her.

‘Frank. Terrible things… And I know I’m a little older than he is-and I suppose I’ve been very foolish-but he did say he was fond of me.’

‘Frank Crutchley?’

‘Yes-and it wasn’t my fault about Uncle’s money. We were going to be married-only we were waiting for the forty pounds and my own little savings that Uncle borrowed. And they’re all gone now and no money to come from Uncle and now he says he hates the sight of me, and-and I do love him so!’

‘I am so sorry,’ said Harriet, helplessly. What else was there to be said? The thing was ludicrous and abominable.

‘He-he-he called me an old hen!’ That was the almost unspeakable thing; and when it was out Miss Twitterton went on more easily. ‘He was so angry about my savings-but I never thought of asking Uncle for a receipt.’

‘Oh, my dear!’

‘I was so happy-thinking we were going to be married as soon as he could get the garage started-only we didn’t tell anybody, because, you see, I was a little bit older than him, though of course I was in a better position. But he was working up and making himself quite superior-’

How fatal, thought Harriet, how fatal! Aloud she said:

‘My dear, if he treats you like that he’s not superior at all. He’s not fit to clean your shoes.’

Peter was singing:

‘Que donnerez-vous, belle,

Pour avoir votre ami?

Que donnerez-vous, belle,

Pour avoir votre ami?’

(He seems to have got over it, thought Harriet)

‘And he’s so handsome… We used to meet in the churchyard-there’s a nice seat there. Nobody comes that way in the evenings… I let him kiss me…’

“Je donnerais Versailles,

Paris et Saint Denis!’

‘… and now he hates me… I don’t know what to do… I shall go and drown myself. Nobody knows what I’ve done for Frank…’

‘Aupres de ma blonde

Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon.

Aupres de ma blonde

Qu’il fait bon dormir!’

‘Oh, Peter,’ said Harriet in an exasperated undertone. She rose and shut the door upon this heartless exhibition. Miss Twitterton, exhausted by her own emotions, sat weeping quietly in a corner of the settle. Harriet was conscious of a whole series of emotions, arranged in layers like a Neapolitan ice.

What on earth am I to do with her?…

He is singing songs in the French language…

And it must be nearly dinner-time…

Somebody called Polly…

Mrs Ruddle will drive those men distracted…

Bonte d’ame…

Old Noakes dead in our cellar…

(Eructavit cor meum!)…

Poor Bunter!…

Sellon?…

(Qu’il fait bon dormir)…

If you know How, you know Who…

This house…

My true love hath my heart and I have his…

She came back and stood by the settle. ‘Listen! Don’t cry so terribly. He isn’t worth it. Honestly, he couldn’t be. There isn’t a man in ten million that’s worth breaking your heart over.’ (No good to tell people that.) ‘Try to forget him. I know it sounds difficult…’

Miss Twitterton looked up.

‘You wouldn’t find it so easy?’

‘To forget Peter?’ (No; nor other things.) ‘Well, of course, Peter…’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Twitterton, without rancour. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones. I’m sure you deserve it.’

‘I’m quite sure I don’t.’ (God’s bodikins, man, much better… Every man after his desert?)

‘And what you must have thought of me!’ cried Miss Twitterton, suddenly restored to a sense of the actual. ‘I hope he isn’t too terribly angry. You see, I heard you coming in just outside the door-and I simply couldn’t face anybody so I ran upstairs-and then I didn’t hear anything so I thought you’d gone and came down-and seeing you so happy together…’

‘It doesn’t matter the very least bit,’ said Harriet, hastily. ‘Please don’t think any more about it. He knows it was quite an accident. Now-don’t cry any more.’

‘I must be going.’ Miss Twitterton made vague efforts to straighten her disordered hair and the jaunty little hat. ‘I’m afraid I look a sight.’

‘No, not a bit. Just a touch of powder’s all you want. Where’s my-oh! I left it in Peter’s pocket. No, here it is on the what-not. That’s Bunter. He always clears up after us. Poor Bunter and the port-it must have been a blow to him.’

Miss Twitterton stood patiently to be tidied up, like a small child in the hands of a brisk nurse. ‘There-you look quite all right. See! No one would notice anything.’

The mirror! Miss Twitterton shrank at the thought of it, but curiosity spurred her on. This was her own face, then how strange! ‘I’ve never had powder on before. It-it makes me feel quite fast.’

She stared, fascinated.

‘Well,’ said Harriet, cheerfully, ‘it’s helpful sometimes. Let me tuck up this little curl behind-’

Her own dark, glowing face came into the mirror behind Miss Twitterton’s and she saw with a shock that the trail of vine-leaves was still in her hair. ‘Goodness! how absurd I look! We were playing silly games.’