The sobs came again. Olive put an arm round her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed the tip of her nose as being the—comparatively—driest spot available.
“Might as well stop yelling,” Olive suggested,
Vicky’s sobs diminished in violence.
“Whatever shall we do?" she asked. “Mrs. Tamar may be here for it any moment.”
Olive considered. She came to a decision.
“We’ll have a cup of tea,” she said firmly.
Vicky got out her handkerchief and, as that was plainly quite inadequate, went to find a face towel. She looked at herself in the glass. She said simply,
“I must do me.”
She became busy with this operation. Olive filled the kettle and put it on the small electric stove they used. Vicky, intent before the mirror, said,
“Mrs. Tamar will never forgive us.”
“I expect we’ll lose her,” agreed Olive. “It was for the Buckingham Palace garden party, wasn’t it?"
“Yes,” said Vicky. She turned tragically, lip-stick and compact in hand. She said very slowly, “I thought perhaps even the Queen herself might have noticed that hat—I thought perhaps someday we might be asked to send hats to the Palace.” She sighed as the lost soul might sigh who sees the gates of paradise slowly closing. “And now—” She resumed her task. “Now most likely Lady Alice will wear it,” she said. “It’ll look awful.”
“No good,” said Olive, making the tea and making it strong, “no good thinking about it.”
“It’s not even,” said Vicky, “as if it were anything like Lady Alice’s style. People will say we let our clients go out looking—sights. I might have found something to suit her—only nothing could except a gas mask,” added Vicky viciously. “Olive, why don’t you sack me?”
“Well, that wouldn’t get the hat back, would it?”asked Olive. “It’s all rather awful, but I don’t see how any one could possibly have helped it.”
“I might have grabbed her if I had been quicker,” sighed Vicky. “But she was out of the shop and in the taxi like lightning.”
“She’s twice as big and strong as you are,” Olive pointed out. “Almost like a man.”
Jenny, the junior assistant, put a small, scared face in at the door and looked much relieved when she saw them drinking tea. She would hardly have been surprised to find them both unconscious on the floor. She said,
“Oh, please, Mr. Owen’s here.”
Vicky jumped up. She spilt her tea in doing so but she didn’t care. She cried,
“Oh, why ever didn’t we think of him? He’s a policeman and he can go and arrest her or something and make her give it back again.”
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 1938 E.R. Punshon
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1938 by Victor Gollancz
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 910570 87 6
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Comes a Stranger Page 30