Heads You Lose Read Online Free Page A

hear such pretty speeches from you.”
    “You’re going to hear a very pretty one indeed, if only the rest of the party will take a bit longer to dress,” he said, still not hurrying his words. “I observed for the first time, to-day, that our Pen has got his eye on you; and in case you should make up your mind too quickly in his favour, I thought I’d better so far abuse his hospitality as to inform you that I also am in the running. I don’t know if you knew. Have a cocktail?”
    She looked at him, bewildered, but accepted the cocktail. “I feel I need it. Is this a proposal, James?”
    “It would be, if there was time,” said James, glancing towards the door. “But it’s rather a long story. Do you think you could bear to listen to it some time this evening?”
    “Well, James, of course. I mean, I don’t mean ‘of course’ to the proposal, but of course I’d like to listen to the story and—and then—well, we could—see. But we can’t very well march off by ourselves after dinner, if that’s what you mean.”
    “You think Pendock might not be too pleased? No, you’re right, I don’t think he would. On the other hand, I’ve made up a beautiful speech and I’d like you to hear it. Look here; will you meet me after they’ve all pushed off to bed? Come out on the terrace—or, better still, come down to the orchard and we’ll go for a walk in the moonlight. It’s a lovely evening for courting.”
    Pendock came in, followed after a few minutes by Lady Hart. “Sherry for me, please, Pen dear. Fran, what’s the matter? You look rather white.”
    “I can’t possibly, darling; I’ve got pots of rouge on. Where’s the Black Boy?”
    Venetia and Henry arrived, and Aziz came busily in at the heels of the butler. “Come on, my enemy alien,” said Fran, picking him up in her arms. “What an old faggot that Morland is! Fancy saying she wouldn’t have him, just because he’s a mouldy German… my heavenly one…” She trailed off into the dining-room, murmuring lovingly into a velvet ear.
    They sat down to dinner: Pendock at one end of the glowing old mahogany table, Lady Hart on his right, jolly and vivacious in her flowing black velvet frock, a scrap of old lace sitting crookedly on top of her head to hide the scarcity of her soft white hair; Venetia on his left, her hair a shining halo round her little head; Fran, rather silent, still a trifle white under the pots of rouge. Henry contributed a theory that Aziz had been a simple British bull-dog doing a spot of secret service work in Germany, when suddenly the wind had changed…
    Bunsen came in with the coffee. “And a telephone call for Captain Nicholl, sir.”
    “For me?” said James, surprised. “Who on earth knows I’m here?” He rose to his feet. “Well, I’d better go and find out, I suppose. Don’t say they’re packing up my leave!”
    It was a very long call. They drank their coffee and poured out glasses of port. James came back, looking a little strained. “It was nothing. Just somebody—ringing me up.”
    “No!” said Venetia, laughing.
    They moved off into the drawing-room, and settled down to Vingt-et-un. “I don’t think I’ll play,” said James, counting out matches with a casual forefinger. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’ll go for a stroll outside.” Over their unsuspecting heads he signalled to Francesca: “The orchard—eleven o’clock.”
    So that at half-past ten Fran yawned prodigiously and announced that it was terribly late, and she thought they all ought to go to bed. As her present passion for Vingt-et-un usually kept them up till the early hours of the morning, this declaration was received with astonishment, not unmingled with relief. Aziz departed for a brief and business-like walk upon the terrace and a second handkerchief was sacrificed to his muddy paws; he went contentedly upstairs, tucked under Venetia’s arm. Pendock, key in hand, stood at the front door and called out: “Is James