Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day Read Free

had managed so well. If only…Miss Pettigrew, from nowhere, felt an amazing, powerful assurance pouring into her veins. This beautiful creature believed in her. She would not fail her. Could a Miss Pettigrew not be a Mrs. Mortleman?
    “I have never,” said Miss Pettigrew, “told a black lie in my life, and very few white ones, but there is always a time to begin.”
    “He mustn’t guess I want him away. You’re sure you won’t let him guess.”
    “He won’t guess.”
    Miss LaFosse flung her arms round Miss Pettigrew and kissed her.
    “Oh, you darling! How can I thank you? Oh, thank you, thank you…you’re sure you can manage?”
    “Leave it to me,” said Miss Pettigrew. Miss LaFosse made for the door. Calmly, collectedly, full powers in control, Miss Pettigrew chided her gently.
    “You’ve forgotten the coffee.” Miss Pettigrew filled the coffeepot, turned around and went back into the room. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks were flushed, she felt weak with nervousness, but she had never felt so exhilarated in her life. Things were happening. Miss LaFosse followed meekly behind.
    Miss Pettigrew sat down, poured out another cup of coffee for herself and Miss LaFosse and waited, with devilish tact, for a few minutes. That marvellous sense of assurance still upheld her. Phil looked set for the morning. At last Miss Pettigrew spoke. She leaned forward with her gentle, engaging smile.
    “Young man, I am a busy woman and I have a lot of things to discuss with Miss LaFosse. Would you mind very much if I were so rude as to ask you to leave us alone together?”
    “What things?”
    Miss Pettigrew was not beaten.
    “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew with delicate reserve. “Certain articles…of a lady’s clothing…”
    “That’s all right. I know all about ‘em.”
    “In theory, perhaps,” said Miss Pettigrew with dignity. “In practice…I hope not. We are fitting.”
    “I don’t mind learning.”
    “You choose to joke,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly.
    “O. K.” said Phil resignedly. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
    Miss Pettigrew shook her head with gentle amusement.
    “If that suits you…but I don’t think you’ll like sitting for over an hour in a cold bedroom.”
    “You can’t be discussing underclothes all the time.”
    “There are other feminine interests.”
    “Can’t I listen in?”
    “You can not,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly.
    “Why not? Ain’t it pure enough for my ears?”
    Miss Pettigrew stood up and drew herself to her full height.
    “I am,” said Miss Pettigrew, “the daughter of a curate.”
    He was quelled.
    “O.K., sister. You win. I’ll scram.”
    “The contaminating effect,” thought Miss Pettigrew severely, “of too many cheap American films.”
    Miss Pettigrew herself helped him on with his coat. All this time Miss LaFosse wore an air of vague detachment, as though she didn’t really care whether he went or stayed, but one must humour these middle-aged females. And once she winked at him at Miss Pettigrew’s expense. Miss Pettigrew noted, and her new, indecorous self gave full marks of approval for the delicate touch it gave to the whole conspiracy.
    “Well, good-bye, baby,” said Phil. “See you anon.”
    He took Miss LaFosse in his arms and kissed her, just as though he didn’t care whether Miss Pettigrew saw or not. And, of course, he couldn’t care. Miss Pettigrew sat down weakly.
    “Oh dear!” Miss Pettigrew’s virgin mind strove wildly for adjustment. “Kisses…in front of me. I mean such…such ardent kisses. Not at all proper.”
    But her traitorous, female heart turned right over in her body and thoroughly sympathized with the look of whole-hearted enjoyment registered by Miss LaFosse’s face. And even though he was obviously left a little drunk with the reciprocatory fervour of Miss LaFosse’s kisses, Phil still, very politely, remembered to say goodbye to herself.
    A last kiss for Miss LaFosse, a last word for Miss Pettigrew, Phil opened