"Any day suits me," Toby agreed. "You'd like the invitations sent off fairly soon, I take it?"
"Yes—give 'em plenty of notice. I don't want to give them any excuse of previous engagements to wriggle out of it I Use all your charm and persuasion, sir !"
"We will," Toby promised. "We'll get them here for you, my boy, and good luck to your plans !"
"If there are any other of your friends—" Philip was speaking directly to Ronnie now—"young people who have had contact with Bazualiland, ask them along by all means. We've plenty of room when we open the double doors downstairs. But not Charles Cunningham. I bar him !" A smile went with the words but did not entirely take away the sting, as he went on : "I don't think
he created a very good impression the other night !"
Ronnie felt the quick colour come to her face, but she felt bound to defend Charles. "Someone told me the St. Boniface housemen had doctored some of the drinks," she said, and found herself adding in formal tones : "Anyway, I shan't be going to next year's dance at all"
"No?" his brows went up in the quick, questioning way that was his habit. "Of course, I'm forgetting you'll be out on your ear when you plough your exams next October, won't you?"
Blue eyes met grey and for a second their glances held one another in silence. "You don't seem to think that I have any vocation as a nurse, do you, Mr. Conway?" she said quietly, and though it had the form of a statement it was really a question—the answer to which she would have valued.
He smiled. "Shall we say that I think you have a greater vocation in other directions? And perhaps we shall be able to find an outlet for it—in Bazualiland, if all goes well." And with that, a smile, and a brief 'goodnight,' he was gone.
"Now what on earth did he mean by that?" Ronnie asked herself aloud.
"What was that, dear?" Toby called, but did not wait for an answer. "He's a nice fellow, isn't he? We must do all we can to help him, Ronnie—it's a remarkable scheme, this of his. I only wish it could have come when we were in office."
Ronnie kissed his cheek. "Never mind, darling. If he gets it through we'll treat ourselves to a trip out to see the hospital opened."
"Perhaps—" Toby sighed and patted her cheek as he added : "I'm getting old, you know. It's a young man's scheme."
During the weeks that followed—and they were cold, cheerless weeks of snow, fog and rain—Ronnie tried to put the occasion of the forthcoming cocktail party
out of her mind. She wasn't sure of its implications—but she was a little afraid of them.
She saw little of Philip Conway, except on the wards, where he ran true to form as His Nibs, demanding an exacting standard from all the hospital staff and betraying his humanity and warm generosity only to his patients.
The one or two occasions at home when she had to have a personal contact with him, over the acceptances and refusals of the invitations for instance, made things much harder for Ronnie. She tried quite disinterestedly to take her love to pieces and persuade herself that it was just a piece of foolish imagination. You couldn't be in love with someone who, at best, was a complete enigma, she told herself. But no matter how often she repeated the assertion, the fact remained that she was in love with him. She even envied his patients, with whom alone he seemed to discard the façade that kept everyone else at arm's length. It was strange, she thought, how anyone so apparently friendly as Philip Conway could reveal so little of himself and yet absorb so much information about his associates. He seemed able to read or forecast their thoughts with uncanny accuracy.
There were times when she would dearly have loved to pump Withers, and it would not have been hard, for 'Master Philip' was a favourite topic of conversation with the cheerful Cockney. But Ronnie was afraid of giving herself away, and Philip remained an enigma to her. Who were his friends? What did he do with his spare time? All she did know was that he worked tremendously hard—so hard that it seemed doubtful if he had time for any private life at all. The house in Adam Square was a purely professional one so far as he was concerned.
When the duty lists for February were posted in
Sister's office Ronnie noticed, without surprise, that she was free for the whole day on February the fourteenth, and also for half the following day. She could guess whose hand had arranged that, and wondered vaguely whether anyone thought it odd that His Nibs should take a hand in the affairs of a mere probationer. She surmised, however, that he managed to bring his will into effect at a higher level than that of Sister Young, or that lady would have been less affable.
For a week or two after the dance Sister Young had had unusually bright eyes and went about her work humming dance tunes under her breath, but that gradually wore off in the face of the strictly professional manner with which Philip Conway treated her on the ward. Ronnie guessed, not without a little complacent satisfaction, that his philandering with Sister Young had begun and ended with that night. She was even more than a little inclined to think that those who complained were more than likely indulging in a little wishful thinking.
Ronnie had wondered at first how much she was letting herself in for with regard to the arrangements for the party, but it soon transpired that it was little enough in the way of preparation. Withers had apparently had his detailed instructions.
"Master Philip says please to let me know if there was anything special you would like, miss—otherwise, not to bother yourself about the food or drinks. Would there be anything, miss?"
"I'm sure it'll all be safe in your capable hands, Withers," she told the man with a smile. "You're going to enjoy yourself, aren't you?"
"I am that, miss," he told her with satisfaction. "Master Philip never seems to 'ave the time for parties like the old gentleman, his father, did. Works too hard, that's his trouble. And here's me eating me head off
and not properly earning me keep, as you might say."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You look after Mr. Conway very well indeed. I'm sure he'd be lost without you."
"Now it's a funny thing you should say that, miss, because I was only thinking to meself the other day that Master Philip is the most independent gentleman I've ever knowed. Never seems to want any help—not a bit like the old Colonel."
"Did Colonel Conway rely on you a lot, Withers?"
"Well, not really on me, miss. It was his wife. Couldn't do a thing without her. He was a broken man when she died—only lived a twelvemonth after, and just the shadder of himself until 'e died."
"Oh," Ronnie said a little blankly. "Well, Mr. Conway isn't like his father, then."
"You can say that again, miss. There's times I can't make 'im out at all. I often tells him that it's high time he was married with a family of his own, but he don't seem interested. There's plenty of nice young ladies ready and willing, I tells him. No, Withers, he says, there's more than enough children in the world needing my care without my having a family. Don't seem natural to me, does it you, miss?"
Ronnie remembered what they had said about His Nibs only being interested in black babies; it seemed as though they were right.
"Oh well, perhaps he's not interested in women and marriage—or perhaps he's been crossed in love," she said lightly.
Withers shook his head darkly. "He's just not serious about women," he stated. "There's never been one that has touched him in all the years I've been serving him
. well, miss—" he suddenly changed the subject, aware that he was gossiping unduly. "Shall you order the flowers yourself or will you tell me what kind you'll be wanting?"
Ronnie enjoyed arranging the flowers and having plenty of time to do it. By the time she and Withers had finished with the room it looked really lovely. It was very different in style from the spacious bungalow residence that had been 'home' in Lemumba, but the first room she had taken a pride in arranging for a party since those days, which seemed so far off now.
"It does look nice, miss," Withers approved. "This is going to be a slap-up party, I can feel it in my bones. Have you seen your d
ad, miss? I've just helped him into his things, and my word, he do look a toff ! Only thing is, he's lost a lot of weight since that suit was made for him."
"I'm afraid he has, Withers," Ronnie sighed. "He's never been really well since that heart attack he had before we left Africa. But he's been heaps better since you've been keeping an eye on him."
Withers beamed. "I'm glad of that, miss. It's a pleasure to do things for him—'e knows how they ought to be done. Now, if you'll excuse me, miss, I'll go and put on me clean jacket and be ready to open the door."
Ronnie, left alone for a few moments, stared into the huge log fire—unnecessary, because of the efficient central heating, but giving a country-house atmosphere to the setting—and tried to chase the chill out of her heart which Withers' reference to her father's loss of weight had given her. It was true that he never looked or seemed really well these days, although he seemed happy in himself, and was looking forward to this party with almost his old zest. Parties had always been the breath of life to Toby Forbes—he loved his fellow creatures and was the most sociable of people.
"Penny for them ?" A voice behind her startled her, and she turned quickly to see that Philip had come into the room. He was looking more than usually handsome in his formal clothes and did not wait for her reply.
"You've made this room very attractive. Thank you." "I'm glad you're pleased, Mr. Conway. I hope everything will go off well."
A sudden frown darkened his expression and she wondered what she had said to annoy him.
"That isn't a very good start, is it?" he enquired. "This is a joint party for a purpose we all have at heart. Do you think that for the occasion we could drop formality and use Christian names in front of our guests? My friends call me Phil—" suddenly his charming smile flashed out, transforming his face. "Would you like to be called Veronica, or Ronnie?"
She flushed a little. "Just Ronnie, please."
"Right," he said. "Ah, here's your father, and the first arrivals by the sound of it. By the way, I've asked a few of my own friends to drop in if they feel like it— it won't seriously affect numbers, and anyway, no one expects to have much room at a cocktail party, do they?"
It was not long before the big room was filled with people and chatter and the clink of glasses. It was just like old times, and Ronnie felt as if she had come alive again after aeons of cold storage !
One half of her brain told her to keep her feet on solid ground. This was just one occasion—not likely to be repeated often, if ever. But the caution did not prevent her happiness from bubbling over. In the warmth of good fellowship and the meeting of so many old friends she could not subscribe to half measures and she gave herself wholly to the evening's success. She had always been an excellent natural hostess, and contact with people who were her friends sparked off in her all her innate charms.
Across the room she could see her father surrounded by a group of old friends, absorbed and happy. "I hope he won't be too tired," Ronnie thought, but she could not seriously worry when she saw him so happy.
"Another sherry, miss?" Withers, bustling around importantly, offered his tray of glasses.
"No, thanks," Ronnie declined. "Everything going well in your department, Withers?"
"We'll get through," Withers promised. "Never you fear, miss."
It was not hard to find Philip amongst the crowd— his height made his progress amongst the guests easy to follow. Across the room just for an instant Ronnie caught his eyes. They flashed her some message that she could not read as he slightly raised the glass he was carrying. She noticed that the level of the liquid in the glass had not changed—like herself he evidently found congenial company stimulant enough.
More than once Ronnie had wondered just how this evening's entertainment was supposed to advance the hospital scheme, and how Phil—she used the name quite unconsciously in her thoughts—intended to put it across to their guests. She had thought that perhaps he would make some general announcement about the scheme, but he did not do that. Yet scraps of conversation on every side came to her ears, and it was soon evident that most people had got hold of some sort of idea of what was afoot. Everyone acclaimed the idea as a reform long overdue, but all too frequently she heard comments such as "What can we do?" "The Government aren't likely to take a few well-wishers into account when it's a question of spending millions." "Anything we could do would be a drop in the ocean." "A colossal undertaking—does he realise the size of the thing, I wonder ?"
Ronnie felt a little chill of misgiving. Did Phil realise what he was up against? He was no fool and he had been out to Bazualiland to get first-hand impressions of the need and size of the job. But she did not want him to be hurt. She sensed how much the whole
go
scheme meant to him and looked around her at the gathering of people—contacts that Toby had made in more than twenty years' service. They represented many who had interests still in the country as well as many whose interest was more philanthropic, but viewed against the immensity of the task they were appallingly few.
A slight frown puckered Ronnie's brows. There was something wrong somewhere. A man of Phil's intelligence must realise that any help he could get out of the meeting was infinitesimal. Then why had he taken so much pains?—enough to convince Toby entirely and almost to convince herself. Surely—
The thought was never finished, for at that moment Phil bore down on her with an elderly woman in tow. Ronnie struggled with a half feeling of recognition, and then in a flash before Phil's introduction she recognised that chubby, smiling face with its three chins and beaming good humour as belonging to Lady Porthaven, the wife of a millionaire industrialist and philanthropist whose picture she had often seen in the newspapers.
"Adela, I want you to meet your hostess, Ronnie Forbes. Ronnie, this is Adela, my godmother. Her old man is simply filthy with lucre, but she can't help that, and she's quite the nicest godmother I've got."
"You silly boy, you couldn't have more than one godmother anyway—don't you remember your catechism?" Lady Porthaven rebuked him. "It's two for a girl and one for a boy—" but Phil had drifted away before she had finished speaking, and she turned her attention to Ronnie. "It's so nice to meet you at last," she beamed. "I've heard such lots about you. Is that your father over there? My, he is distinguished-looking, isn't he? Don't you think Phil's a dear boy—"
She rattled on without pausing and reduced Ronnie to a breathless uncertainty as to which question to
answer first. "May I get you something to drink?" she interjected when Lady Porthaven paused momentarily for breath.
"No, thank you, dear—it always gives me the hiccups, so I think I'm best without. Stay and talk to me, though. Phil wants us to be friends."
If she hadn't been so friendly and natural Lady Porthaven's forthrightness might have been embarrassing. With shrewd perception in her little merrily twinkling eyes she went on : "You mustn't mind me. I've no time for polite tittle-tattle. As a matter of fact I never go to cocktail parties if I can help it. Too much noise and you never get a chance to finish a conversation before the person you're talking to is whisked off. Tell me, how do you like working with Phil?"
Ronnie laughed. "Well, I don't exactly work with him, you know. I'm a very junior nurse at St. Chad's where he's a consultant—we're poles apart !"
"Is it true that they call him His Nibs?"
"I'm afraid it is," Ronnie had to confess.
"He doesn't like it," Lady Porthaven looked quite serious for a moment. "It's silly. He doesn't want all that fuss and palaver they give him. He's just a decent ordinary man doing a good job of work. D'you like nursing?" she finished with one of her abrupt changes of subject.
"Yes, I love the work. But no one seems to think I've really got a vocation for it," Ronnie conchided a trifle ruefully.
"Never mind—it'll give you an insight into the work, I mean, it does give you something in common, doesn't it?"
Ronnie did not know what Lady Porthaven meant, and
if it had not been for the unexpected flashes of a lively intelligence she would have written her off as a good-natured middle-aged babbler. But she was sure that Adela Porthaven was not that.
Ronnie had a sudden thought. "Do you know my Aunt Mary—Mary Forbes—too?" she enquired.
"Well, yes," agreed the other. "I do know her. Never liked the woman, I must say—too bossy by half. But Phil told me you weren't in the least like her. I'd never have written that reference otherwise—"
Somebody claimed Ronnie's attention and with a hurried 'Excuse me' she had to leave Lady Porthaven.
She never had time to go back to her either, and so she was not able to ask for an explanation of that last remark. But at the back of her mind there was a troubled remembrance that Aunt Mary did seem to have written rather a lot of sheets in the testimonials which Matron had been reading attached to her application form for entry into St. Chad's.
CHAPTER SIX
WITH the departure of the last guest some of the brightness faded, but the magic of the evening was not quite gone. It lingered on in the warm afterglow of renewed friendships and memories of times past.
Ronnie crossed to where her father was sitting in a big chair by the fireside. She had hardly had a word with him all the evening and as she approached him now she noticed that he looked drawn. "You're tired, Daddy," she accused. "Why didn't you sit down before?"
"Not really tired," he smiled. "Just taking the weight off my feet !"
"You've been enjoying yourself, haven't you, though?"
"I most certainly have," he asserted stoutly. "Did you have a word with old Phelps? What d'you think the old boy's going to do next?"
"I don't know—but something mad. He was always going in for harebrained ideas—"
"Going fruit-farming in California, if you please— at his age !" Toby chuckled. "He must be seventy-five if he's a day ! Offered me a partnership if I could put up a bit of capital. I told him I'd been a Government servant, not a bloated industrialist !"
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