Appleby's Answer Read Free Page A

Pringle, in consequence, was about to breathe freely (in a literal, not metaphorical sense, since she was a nervous woman) when she suddenly became aware of a fresh occasion of embarrassment. Murder in the Cathedral was lying on the floor of the compartment, with Orlando and herself uppermost. In her perturbed withdrawal she must have made some movement which had brushed it from the seat.
    â€˜Oh, dear – your book!’ she exclaimed, and made a dive for it in a random and undignified fashion which might have suggested to anybody that she had mysteriously lost her head. And Captain Bulkington had, in fact, forestalled her. His own dive, if not exactly agile, had been more exact, and now the volume was in his hand. He glanced at the photograph, and he glanced at Miss Pringle.
    â€˜And your book, too,’ he said.
    The recognition scene had taken place.
    Miss Pringle had enjoyed an almost similar experience two or three times before. Still, not quite similar – and it was precisely the element of dissimilarity that would have made ‘enjoyed’ something of a misnomer now. She was still shaken by her narrow escape from being discovered in what would have been a most humiliating situation. And there is obvious difficulty in extracting pleasure from being identified as the authoress of a beta-minus-query-minus book. It was a little spurt of indignation that must have prompted the remark she now (with some surprise) heard herself offer.
    â€˜You didn’t much like my novel,’ she said. ‘But I hope that you do at least like my cat.’
    Captain Bulkington was startled – which was natural enough. He even glanced around the compartment and under its seats, as if supposing the lady to have referred to some actual feline co-partner in their colloquy. He also looked alarmed. Perhaps he owned a pathological fear of cats, and would have found Orlando in the flesh (or fur) not merely a brute tertium quid but positively what the witty Italians call a terzo incomodo . Then he became aware of Miss Pringle’s politely pointing finger.
    â€˜Oh, I see!’ he said. ‘A delightful-looking creature, madam, ’pon my soul. But not got him with you – eh? In a basket, or anything of that kind?’
    â€˜When I have to travel, Orlando goes to a cats’ hotel. A really good hotel, accepting only pedigree cats.’ Miss Pringle provided this information quite cordially. The truth is that Captain Bulkington’s ’pon my soul’ had not a little enchanted her. She had never before actually met an English gentleman given to this antique locution, although she had come across it in novels, and even employed it in fiction herself, dowering with it some socially apposite character – a peer, perhaps, or what her father had used to call a Harrovian of the old school.
    â€˜Quite right,’ Captain Bulkington was saying approvingly. ‘One can’t be too careful in choosing a well-bred cat’s company, eh? Evil communications corrupt good manners. And Manners maketh Cat. True of Dog, too. Ha-ha!’
    Miss Pringle joined in this conventional evocation of merriment. She had forgotten for the moment the Captain’s invidious and dyslogistic employment of the Greek alphabet. She had been absolutely right in judging him (like Orlando) eminently well-bred. And now he further vindicated his possession of this character by boldly declining to flinch from the point of discomfort between them.
    â€˜That scribble, eh? Unfortunate misconception, madam. Word of honour. Bad habit of mine. Something I have to remember comes into my head, and I stick it down on whatever’s in front of me. This time, it was a mark I’m simply bound in conscience to put into a pupil’s report. His father won’t relish it, I fear. But one’s obliged to tell the truth.’
    â€˜A pupil? You are–’ Miss Pringle hesitated. She judged it awkward to say ‘a