Hand in Glove Read Free Page B

what my job is to be.”
    “Ah! Because they didn’t exactly know. I was coming to that.”
    It took him some time to come to it, though, because he would dodge about among innumerable parentheses. Finally, however, it emerged that he was writing a book. He had been approached by the head of a publishing firm.
    “Wonderful,” Nicola said, “actually to be
asked
by a publisher to write.”
    He laughed. “My dear child, I promise you it would never have come from
me
. Indeed, I thought he must be pulling my leg. But not at all. So in the end I madly consented and — and there we are, you know.”
    “Your memoirs, perhaps?” Nicola ventured.
    “No. No, although I must say — but no. You’ll never guess!”
    She felt that she never would, and waited.
    “It’s — how can I explain? Don’t laugh! It’s just that in these extraordinary times there are all sorts of people popping up in places where one would least expect to find them: clever, successful people, we must admit, but
not
— as we old fogies used to say — ‘not quite-quite.’ And there they find themselves in a
milieu
where they really are, poor darlings, at a grievous loss.”
    And there it was: Mr. Pyke Period had been commissioned to write a book on etiquette. Nicola suspected that his publisher had displayed a remarkably shrewd judgment. The only book on etiquette she had ever read, a Victorian work unearthed in an attic by her brother, had been a favourite source for ribald quotation. “ ‘It is a mark of ill-breeding in a lady,’ ” Nicola’s brother would remind her, “ ‘to look over her shoulder, still more behind her, when walking abroad.’ ”
    “ ‘There should be no diminution of courteous observance,’ ” she would counter, “ ‘in the family circle. A brother will always rise when his sister enters the drawing-room and open the door to her when she shows her intention of quitting it.’ ”
    “ ‘While on the sister’s part some slight acknowledgment of his action will be made: a smile or a quiet ‘Thank you’ will indicate her awareness of the little attention.’ ”
    Almost as if he had read her thoughts, Mr. Period was saying: “Of course, one knows all about these delicious Victorian offerings — quite wonderful. And there
have
been contemporaries: poor Félicité Sankie-Bond, after their crash, don’t you know, and one mustn’t overlap with dear Nancy. Very diffy. In the meantime…”
    In the meantime, it at last transpired, Nicola was to make a typewritten draft of his notes and assemble them under their appropriate headings. These were: “The Ball-Dance,” “Trifles That Matter,” “The Small Dinner,” “The Partie Carré,” “Addressing Our Letters & Betters,” “Awkwiddities,” “The Debutante — Lunching and Launching,” “Tips on Tipping.”
    And, bulkily, in a separate compartment, “The Compleat Letter-Writer.”
    She was soon to learn that letter-writing was a great matter with Mr. Pyke Period. He was, in fact, famous for his letters of condolence.
    They settled to work: Nicola at her table near the front French windows, Mr. Period at his desk in the side one.
    Her job was an exacting one. Mr. Period evidently jotted down his thoughts piecemeal, as they had come to him, and it was often difficult to know where a passage precisely belonged. “Never
fold
the napkin (there is no need, I feel sure, to put the unspeakable ‘serviette’ in its place), but drop it lightly on the table.” Nicola listed this under “Table Manners,” and wondered if Mr. Period would find the phrase “refeened,” a word he often used with humorous intent.
    She looked up to find him in a trance, his pen suspended, his gaze rapt, a sheet of headed letter-paper under his hand. He caught her glance, and said: “A few lines to my dear Désirée Bantling.
Soi-disante
. The Dowager, as the
Telegraph
would call her. You saw Ormsbury had gone, I daresay?”
    Nicola, who had no idea whether the