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Chapter VII
Jan Entertains—with Elegance and Ease

One day Uncle John had news for Jan and me. We were to have callers, real callers, all to ourselves.

"Nancy McKenzie is staying with Mrs Johnson," Uncle said, "and she is coming over here to see you, Jan. Let me see, to-day's Friday— yes, next Tuesday. She has a friend with her, and they have been at Te Whare for a fortnight, and will be there another three weeks. I don't think Mrs Johnson knows what to do with them. The girls are away, and she is by herself. So I told her to send them over whenever she liked."

"Oh, bother!" Kathie cried. "I was going to ride over to the Old River with Dan."

"I think Uncle said they wanted to see me," Jan remarked with dignity. "Ngaire will help me entertain. What shall we have for afternoon tea, Ngaire? I'll give Jock and Pipi threepence to play outside."

"We'll do it for sixpence," Jock bargained. "For sixpence well stay outside all the time. Fi'pence we'll hop in and out. Thruppence, we'll come to afternoon tea."

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It wasn't to be done cheaply, Jan saw that, and after some argument she clinched the bargain with fourpence.

"And you're not to be anywhere round. I think you had better play down by the river," she suggested.

She wanted her afternoon to be select. Once Jan had been invited to a dance at Te Whare, and did not enjoy herself very much, since no one asked her to dance, and Nancy, who was staying there then, and who was supposed to look after her, neglected her altogether. Only the arrival of Mr Corfan, an Antarctic Explorer (Jan always speaks of him in capitals) saved the night for Jan. She really did enjoy the dance after he came, but she says she will never forget that first hour when she sat and sat and sat against the wall till she felt like a pot plant, and quite expected some one to come along and water her.

Naturally, she wanted to impress Nancy. Kathie was anxious for her ride—her habit had arrived—and decided to go with Uncle Dan.

"But I'll make you some drop cakes," she offered generously.

Jan looked dubious.

Mrs McPherson undertook to provide afternoon tea, and Jan and I filled the vases in the sitting-room with fresh flowers and trailing sprays. They looked very pretty when finished, and it page 85wasn't our fault that the one with the flame-flower toppled over into the fender. Jan brushed her hair till it shone, tied it with a new ribbon, and put on her blue zephyr and a fixed smile. I wore my pink, and my patent-leather shoes. We really felt very much at our ease, and strolled into the sitting-room, waiting for our visitors.

It was a dull, cloudy day, and somehow the room, cheery enough at ordinary times, seemed a little dreary. Jan and I sat on the two big chairs by the fireplace, and looked at each other, and practised conversation.

"The weather has been exceedingly warm," said Jan.

"Exceedingly," I replied.

"Do you anticipate—I say, Ngaire, let's light the fire. A fire looks sort of friendly and hospitable. Then we can sit round, and we'll talk ever so much easier. I always feel lost sitting in a big room, with nothing to sit in front of—you know what I mean."

"It's hardly chilly enough," I began, but Jan had the matches in her hand, and was striking one meditatively. She threw it on the logs, which were always piled ready in the huge open fireplaces at Kamahi, and the flames sprang up merrily. To make matters doubly certain she struck a second match.

"It's going to burn," I said.

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It burned—oh, yes, it flared up cheerfully. Little licking flames ran like living things over the wood, and the smoke went up the chimney, and the heat came puffing out. Jan and I looked at each other in dismay. Suddenly we seemed to realize that the afternoon was warm; it was very warm indeed. Nancy and her friend, who were motoring over, would feel the heat, and sitting in front of a nice warm fire would just finish them off.

"I rather wish we hadn't lighted it," Jan said, gazing at the sparks which were darting hopefully about. "Ngaire, those logs are enormous. They'll burn all the afternoon."

"Till to-morrow," I answered. "Uncle John likes big ones. I wish he didn't. Jan, Nancy will melt before she gets here. Suppose we take her into the nursery."

Jan looked at me in horror.

"Nursery! Nursery! Do you think I'd take Nancy into the nursery? I'd sooner see her frizzle to death."

"She will. She'll stew directly she sits down. It's getting worse. You look awfully hot, Jan."

"You look worse yourself. There's one thing," said Jan, with satisfaction, "we can talk about the heat all the time."

"It's a very warm day, Miss Malcolm."

"It is, Miss Malcolm."

It was not all as simple as that, however.

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Nancy McKenzie, Iris Wright, and Miss Smail descended on us just when the fire was at its brightest, and Jan and I at our warmest. We went out to meet them feeling like little puffs of heat ourselves, and when we saw there were three girls instead of two, and found that Miss Smail was older than Kathie—well, we nearly collapsed on the spot.

It was warm outside. A hot wind had sprung up, and our visitors looked sorry for themselves. They were to be sorrier still.

"Come in! Come in!" begged Jan, smiling round nervously, and oozing hospitality and heat. "You look almost blown to pieces. Isn't it warm?"

We took them into the sitting-room. Oh, yes, we marshalled them, into that nice, warm room. We might have rested on the veranda; we might have reclined in the shade under the trees. But we didn't. Of course not.

The visitors found seats. Nancy and Iris made for the couch by the open window, and Miss Smail fell into one of the big chairs. She looked at the flames, and I am sure I heard her suppress a groan. Then we sat round, and waited for some one to speak. Jan, as hostess, knew it was her duty to begin, but her shyness had sprung, like a lurking animal, at her throat. She gazed around for inspiration, saw and felt the fire, and plunged boldly into talk.

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"It's very warm," she said.

Nancy looked up languidly. I think she was feeling the heat too.

"Yes," she answered.

"Yesterday was warm too," added Jan. "I think—I think——" She paused, frowned at me to help her, rose suddenly, crossed the room, and poked the fire. There was no mistaking Miss Smail's groan this time. Silence fell over us once again. Jan was shy; Iris was shyer; Nancy hadn't anything to say. And Miss Smail—we were to learn more about Miss Smail later.

It was a dreadful afternoon. We sat and stared at one another, and no one spoke, and every now and again Miss Smail mopped her face when she thought we weren't looking. I saw Jan's lips tremble, and went quite cold with horror. I knew what that quiver meant. Jan was going to laugh, and once Jan starts to laugh nothing short of battle, murder, or sudden death can stop her.

"I——" she quivered. She looked at Miss Smail, and Miss Smail turned lack-lustre eyes in her direction. "I think—oh!"

For, very hurriedly, Miss Smail rose to her feet, and left her nice warm seat by the fire. She was quite pea-green.

"I—feel very unwell," she stammered. "I— think—I—will go outside."

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Jan rose too.

"How very sad," she said, and her voice rose suddenly into a squeak.

I giggled too. I always do giggle when Jan laughs. I felt ashamed and sorry, and the sorrier I felt the more I wanted to laugh. It was terrible.

Miss Smail, suffering visibly, went on to the veranda, and Jan and Nancy went with her. Left to ourselves, Iris and I sat and looked at each other for quite five minutes. We seemed to be mesmerized too.

We were glad when Mary arrived with tea. It seemed just what we were needing, and Nancy had two cups and Iris three. Miss Smail, however, declined any refreshment. She sat on the veranda and groaned at intervals. We heard her.

The tea was just as it should be—the cakes creamy and big, the sandwiches small and dainty. Even Iris lost her shyness, and found her tongue; the fire died down a little, and we were just beginning to enjoy ourselves when Mrs McPherson entered with a stranger who had called to see the uncles. He was tall and thin, with a pince-nez and a drawl, and though Mrs McPherson did mention his name we did not notice it particularly. It might have been 'James' or 'John' or 'Little Nipon.' Unfortunately it was none of these.

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He said he was driving up the river that night. He had come south by the morning train, and had expected to get a conveyance at the station.

"But apparently in these—ah—outlandish places that is impossible. Mr McLennan brought me as far as Kamahi, and told me that probably Mr Malcolm would see me the rest of the way."

"Are you going far?" Nancy asked, politely.

"To Kinloch," he answered, and even then we never suspected the truth. There was more to come.

"Kinloch?" asked Jan. "Oh, that is where Nan resides—Nan Somerset, you know. She's a friend of ours."

"Her brother collects wriggly things. He's a beast," I contributed.

"He resides in England," finished Jan, with elegance, and dropped a spoon. "Oh, bust!"

Encouraged by her success she went on, in a light, airy way, to tell him just what she thought of Nan's brother, and I threw in an occasional word. We were very frank.

"He never comes near her. He likes insects better than he does her. If I were Nan," said Jan very decidedly, "I shouldn't want to see him either. I expect he's rather a creepy-crawly sort of man."

She poured herself out another cup of tea, feeling she was making rather a good job of the page 91afternoon, after all. The visitor gazed at her blankly, and took a hurried sip of tea.

"Haven't you—ah—given me rather much sugar?" he asked.

Jan had; she had sugared it three times. Nancy smiled in a superior way, and Jan, feeling rather upset, plunged again into conversation.

"Nan's twelve, and she's never seen her brother, and she's got no father or mother, poor kid. I'd like to meet him, and tell him what I think of him," finished Jan, with emphasis.

"I——" I began, but just then Uncle Stephen came into the room, and Jan found her wish had been granted even before she uttered it. Uncle advanced toward the visitor, hand outstretched.

"Mrs McPherson told me you were here. After all these years, I am glad to see you at last, Pat. They have given you tea? Jan, this is Nan's brother."

"What!"

Yes, she said it just like that, short and snappy and horror-stricken.

"What!" She had told him; I had told him; we had both told him—oh!

She looked at Uncle, and she looked at Mr Somerset; then, murmuring something about "Miss Smail," gasped her way outside. She did not visit the invalid, however; she rounded the corner of the veranda instead. I followed her.

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"Where are you going, Jan?"

"To drown myself." Jan looked at me, tears in her eyes. "Anyway," she added, "I'm nearly in flames, and the water will put me out."

"But you can't, Jan," I urged. "You can't— not yet. There's Nancy, and Iris, and—and Miss Smail—sick on the veranda."

Then I looked at Jan, and Jan looked at me, and we leaned against the side of the house, and laughed and laughed till I thought we were never going to stop.