Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day Read Free Page B

It was nearly too much for her. She knew she should now gather her hat and coat, elevate her nose and walk out with outraged dignity. But she couldn’t. She heard her voice saying very weakly, “Then couldn’t you…couldn’t you have put off the other young man last night?”
    “Oh dear!” said Miss LaFosse, again hopelessly. “It’s so involved. I didn’t know Nick was coming. I only got to know quite by chance late last night. He told me he was coming home tomorrow. He’s been away, you know. I think he…he doubts me a little. So when Phil said could he come, I said all right. And then when I heard about Nick I couldn’t put Phil off without a perfectly cast-iron excuse, and I’m not good at them. And I couldn’t make him suspicious. He doesn’t know about Nick. He’s going to back me in a new show. You see how it is?”
    “I see,” said Miss Pettigrew, shocked, excited, and, yes, thrilled. Thrilled right down to the very marrow of her bones. Why pretend? This was life. This was drama. This was action. This was the way the other half lived.
    “So you see what you’ve got to do?” Miss LaFosse pleaded. “You see how vital it is. You’re sure you can manage?”
    Miss Pettigrew stood still and fought her fight. ‘Stand for virtue’ ran her father’s teachings. ‘Cast out the sinner. Spurn him.’ All her maidenly upbringing, her spinster’s life of virtue, her moral beliefs, raised shocked hands of indignation. Then she remembered her place set at table, the cups of coffee, the thickly buttered toast piled on her plate, which, had Miss LaFosse only known, were the first food and drink she had had that day.
    “As I said before,” remarked Miss Pettigrew, “I have excellent eyesight.”
    She went into the bedroom. When she had rapidly erased all possible male signs from the bedroom and adjoining bathroom, even down to nail parings, she came back into the sittingroom. Miss LaFosse was reclining on the chesterfield in front of the electric fire. She had been busy herself and cleared away all the tell-tale breakfast dishes, but she still wore her lovely négligé that made her look like Circe without her wickedness.
    “Now,” thought Miss Pettigrew miserably, “it is really business. Nothing can put it off now.” She felt a sudden, unaccustomed sting at the back of her eyes. She had long ago learned that tears were never any use. “Oh dear!” thought Miss Pettigrew suddenly. “I’m so tired, so terribly tired of business and living in other people’s houses and being dependent on their moods.”
    She walked across the room slowly with the hopeless dignity of the petitioner and sat down on a comfortable chair opposite Miss LaFosse. She folded her hands on her lap and held them very firmly together. She now believed it was quite possible Miss LaFosse might have a few stray children tucked away somewhere, but was beginning to be doubtful whether her past obliging willingness to help in the way of deceit would now recommend her to their mother. Mothers were queer creatures where their children were concerned. Sauce for the goose was not sauce for the gander.
    “About…” began Miss Pettigrew desperately.
    Miss LaFosse leaned forward eagerly.
    “Is everything all right?”
    “Absolutely,” said Miss Pettigrew. “You can set your mind at rest.”
    “Oh, you darling!” Miss LaFosse leaned forward impulsively and kissed her again, and there, right on Miss Pettigrew’s clasped hands, fell two drops of water and two more were trickling down her cheeks. Miss Pettigrew flushed a delicate pink.
    “I have not,” said Miss Pettigrew in humble excuse, “had much affection in my life.”
    “Oh, you poor thing,” said Miss LaFosse gently. “I’ve always had such a lot.”
    “I’m glad,” said Miss Pettigrew simply.
    After that they were friends and Miss LaFosse, tactfully, ignored the tears.
    “About…” began Miss Pettigrew again.
    “It’s because you’re so understanding,” broke