The Four Graces Read Free Page B

delightedly.
    â€œI met a young man at the reception,” said Mr. Grace.
    â€œAnd you asked him to lunch,” added Liz reproachfully.
    â€œHow did you know?” inquired her father in amazement.
    â€œI know you , darling.”
    Mr. Grace sighed. He was of a hospitable nature and the straitness of war rationing was a burden to him. “I keep on forgetting,” he explained.
    â€œWe could kill Pedro,” soothed Tilly. “We’ve always meant to, haven’t we?”
    â€œYes,” agreed Mr. Grace, comforted. “Yes, kill Pedro by all means. We must give the young man a good lunch.”
    â€œIs he an officer?” asked Liz.
    â€œYes, from the camp at Ganthorne. I have no idea of his rank, but I should think he is too young to be a major.”
    â€œToo old to be a lieutenant?”
    â€œDon’t pull his leg,” said Tilly quickly.
    â€œHe likes it,” declared Liz. “It’s good for him to have his leg pulled.”
    â€œYour uncouth idiom revolts me,” said Mr. Grace, who, when he liked, was perfectly capable of holding his own. “I suppose you will know what his rank is when you see him. You can count the buttons on his shoulder strap. To me his rank is immaterial—”
    â€œâ€™Tis but the guinea stamp,” murmured Sal.
    â€œQuite so. His name is Roderick Herd and he is coming to see the rose window.”
    â€œInterested in rose windows,” said Liz regretfully.
    Mr. Grace let that pass. He was aware that his daughters did not appreciate rose windows—not as much as they should—and his thoughts were busy in a different direction for he was remembering his conversation with Roderick Herd. (If Mr. Grace had been an habitué of the local picture house, he would have recognized this “remembering” as a “flashback.”) It had happened as follows: Mr. Grace, slightly dazed by the babble of talk, had withdrawn to the edge of the human whirlpool when suddenly a very brown young man (brown face, brown hair, brown eyes) had accosted him in a respectful manner. “Excuse me, sir. You are Mr. Grace, aren’t you? May I ask if you are any relation to W.G.?” This was a question often put to Mr. Grace (though not as often now as formerly, for the present generation is lamentably indifferent to the giants of the past), and he always made the same answer: “No, but I have four daughters.” It was a “mad hatter” reply, but Mr. Grace found it a useful test of character. Some people said, “Oh, had he four daughters?” Others abandoned W.G. and inquired about the daughters; others looked puzzled, mystified, or merely stupid. Time was when Mr. Grace had replied, “No, but I’m very keen on cricket.” But the daughters were better. This particular young man, Roderick Herd, had taken the daughters without flinching. “Yes,” he had said (almost as if he had known). “Yes, you can’t have everything, can you, sir?” And one had to admit that, as a response, it was pretty hard to beat.
    You can’t have everything, thought Mr. Grace, looking around the table with satisfaction. He was of the opinion that his daughters were beautiful. He knew they were good. Liz was the most attractive, perhaps, she was so full of life, vital and glowing and eager for any adventure that might come her way. She was tall and slim, her hair was golden and full of deep waves, her complexion was milk and roses. Tilly was nearly as tall, but not so slim; her cheeks were rounded and dimpling. Her head was like the head of a bird (an English thrush, thought Mr. Grace, waxing poetical); it was smooth and broad and her brown hair swept back from her forehead, thick as feathers. Sal’s hair was darker, with reddish lights; it was softer hair, little tendrils curled about her forehead and her ears. She had a fragile look but there was resilience there, an unexpected toughness and