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The Doves' Nest and Other Stories

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After lunch Milly and her mother were sitting as usual on the balcony beyond the salon, admiring for the five hundredth time the stocks, the roses, the small, bright grass beneath the palms, and the oranges against a wavy line of blue, when a card was brought them by Marie. Visitors at the Villa Martin were very rare. True, the English clergyman, Mr. Sandi-man, had called, and he had come a second time with his wife to tea. But an awful thing had happened on that second occasion. Mother had made a mistake. She had said " More tea, Mr. Sandybags ? " Oh, what a frightful thing to have happened! How could she have done it ? Milly still flamed at the thought. And he had evidently not forgiven them; he'd never come again. So this card put them both into quite a flutter.

Mr. Walter Prodger, they read. And then an American address, so very much abbreviated that neither of them understood it. Walter Prodger ? But they'd never heard of him. Mother looked from the card to Milly.

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" Prodger, dear ? " she asked mildly, as though helping Milly to a slice of a never-before-tasted pudding.

And Milly seemed to be holding her plate back in the way she answered " I—don't— know, Mother."

" These are the occasions," said Mother, becoming a little flustered, " when one does so feel the need of our dear English servants. Now if I could just say, ' What is he like, Annie ? ' I should know whether to see him or not. But he may be some common man, selling something—one of those American inventions for peeling things, you know, dear. Or he may even be some kind of foreign sharper." Mother winced at the hard, bright little word as though she had given herself a dig with her embroidery scissors.

But here Marie smiled at Milly and murmured, " C'est un très beau Monsieur."

" What does she say, dear ? "

" She says he looks very nice, Mother."

" Well, we'd better——" began Mother.

" Where is he now, I wonder."

Marie answered " In the vestibule, Madame."

In the hall! Mother jumped up, seriously alarmed. In the hall, with all those valuable little foreign things that didn't belong to them scattered over the tables.

" Show him in, Marie. Come, Milly, come dear. We will see him in the salon. Oh, why page 86 isn't Miss Anderson here ?" almost wailed Mother.

But Miss Anderson, Mother's new companion, never was on the spot when she was wanted. She had been engaged to be a comfort, a support to them both. Fond of travelling, a cheerful disposition, a good packer and so on. And then, when they had come all this way and taken the Villa Martin and moved in, she had turned out to be a Roman Catholic. Half her time, more than half, was spent wearing out the knees of her skirts in cold churches. It was really too . . .

The door opened. A middle-aged, cleanshaven, very well dressed stranger stood bowing before them. His bow was stately. Milly saw it pleased Mother very much; she bowed her Queen Alexandra bow back. As for Milly, she never could bow. She smiled, feeling shy, but deeply interested.

" Have I the pleasure," said the stranger very courteously, with a strong American accent, " of speaking with Mrs. Wyndham Fawcett ? "

" I am Mrs. Fawcett," said Mother, graciously, " and this is my daughter, Mildred."

" Pleased to meet you, Miss Fawcett." And the stranger shot a fresh, chill hand at Milly, who grasped it just in time before it was gone again.

" Won't you sit down ? " said Mother, and she waved faintly at all the gilt chairs.

" Thank you, I will," said the stranger.

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Down he sat, still solemn, crossing his legs, and, most surprisingly, his arms as well. His face looked at them over his dark arms as over a gate.

" Milly, sit down, dear."

So Milly sat down, too, on the Madame Recamier couch, and traced a filet lace flower with her finger. There was a little pause. She saw the stranger swallow ; Mother's fan opened and shut.

Then he said " I took the liberty of calling, Mrs. Fawcett, because I had the pleasure of your husband's acquaintance in the States when he was lecturing there some years ago. I should like very much to renoo our—well—I venture to hope we might call it friendship. Is he with you at present ? Are you expecting him out ? I noticed his name was not mentioned in the local paper. But I put that down to a foreign custom, perhaps—giving precedence to the lady."

And here the stranger looked as though he might be going to smile.

But as a matter of fact it was extremely awkward. Mother's mouth shook. Milly squeezed her hands between her knees, but she watched hard from under her eyebrows. Good, noble little Mummy! How Milly admired her as she heard her say, gently and quite simply, " I am sorry to say my husband died two years ago." page 88 Mr. Prodger gave a great start. " Did he ? " He thrust out his under lip, frowned, pondered. " I am truly sorry to hear that, Mrs. Fawcett. I hope you'll believe me when I say I had no idea your husband had . . . passed over."

" Of course." Mother softly stroked her skirt.

" I do trust," said Mr. Prodger, more seriously still, " that my inquiry didn't give you too much pain."

" No, no. It's quite all right," said the gentle voice.

But Mr. Prodger insisted. " You're sure ? You're positive ? "

At that Mother raised her head and gave him one of her still, bright, exalted glances that Milly knew so well. " I'm not in the least hurt," she said, as one might say it from the midst of the fiery furnace.

Mr. Prodger looked relieved. He changed his attitude and continued. " I hope this regrettable circumstance will not deprive me of your——"

" Oh, certainly not. We shall be delighted. We are always so pleased to know any one who——" Mother gave a little bound, a little flutter. She flew from her shadowy branch on to a sunny one. " Is this your first visit to the Riviera ? "

" It is," said Mr. Prodger. " The fact is I was in Florence until recently. But I took a heavy cold there——" page 89 " Florence so damp," cooed Mother.

" And the doctor recommended I should come here for the sunshine before I started for home."

" The sun is so very lovely here," agreed Mother, enthusiastically.

" Well, I don't think we get too much of it," said Mr. Prodger, dubiously, and two lines showed at his lips. " I seem to have been sitting around in my hotel more days than I care to count."

" Ah, hotels are so very trying," said Mother, and she drooped sympathetically at the thought of a lonely man in an hotel... " You are alone here ? " she asked, gently, just in case . . . one never knew ... it was better to be on the safe, the tactful side.

But her fears were groundless.

" Oh, yes, I'm alone," cried Mr. Prodger, more heartily than he had spoken yet, and he took a speck of thread off his immaculate trouser leg. Something in his voice puzzled Milly. What was it ?

" Still, the scenery is so very beautiful," said Mother, " that one really does not feel the need of friends. I was only saying to my daughter yesterday I could live here for years without going outside the garden gate. It is all so beautiful."

" Is that so ? " said Mr. Prodger, soberly. He added, " You have a very charming villa." page 90 And he glanced round the salon. " Is all this antique furniture genuine, may I ask ? "

" I believe so," said Mother. " I was certainly given to understand it was. Yes, we love our villa. But of course it is very large for two, that is to say three, ladies. My companion, Miss Anderson, is with us. But unfortunately she is a Roman Catholic, and so she is out most of the time."

Mr. Prodger bowed as one who agreed that Roman Catholics were very seldom in.

" But I am so fond of space," continued Mother, " and so is my daughter. We both love large rooms and plenty of them—don't we, Milly ? "

This time Mr. Prodger looked at Milly quite cordially and remarked, " Yes, young people like plenty of room to run about."

He got up, put one hand behind his back, slapped the other upon it and went over to the balcony.

" You've a view of the sea from here," he observed.

The ladies might well have noticed it; the whole Mediterranean swung before the windows.

" We are so fond of the sea," said Mother, getting up, too.

Mr. Prodger looked towards Milly. " Do you see those yachts, Miss Fawcett ? "

Milly saw them.

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" Do you happen to know what they're doing ? " asked Mr. Prodger.

What they were doing ? What a funny question ! Milly stared and bit her lip.

" They're racing! " said Mr. Prodger, and this time he did actually smile at her.

" Oh, yes, of course," stammered Milly. " Of course they are." She knew that.

" Well, they're not always at it," said Mr. Prodger, good-humouredly. And he turned to Mother and began to take a ceremonious farewell.

" I wonder," hesitated Mother, folding her little hands and eyeing him, " if you would care to lunch with us—if you would not be too dull with two ladies. We should be so very pleased."

Mr. Prodger became intensely serious again. He seemed to brace himself to meet the luncheon invitation. " Thank you very much, Mrs. Fawcett. I should be delighted."

" That will be very nice," said Mother, warmly. " Let me see. To-day is Monday —isn't it, Milly ? Would Wednesday suit you ? "

" Mr. Prodger replied, " It would suit me excellently to lunch with you on Wednesday, Mrs. Fawcett. At mee-dee, I presume, as they call it here."

" Oh, no ! We keep our English times. At one o'clock," said Mother.

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And that being arranged, Mr. Prodger became more and more ceremonious and bowed himself out of the room.

Mother rang for Marie to look after him, and a moment later the big, glass hall-door shut.

" Well! " said Mother. She was all smiles. Little smiles like butterflies, alighting on her lips and gone again. " That was an adventure, Milly, wasn't it, dear ? And I thought he was such a very charming man, didn't you ? "

Milly made a little face at Mother and rubbed her eye.

" Of course you did. You must have, dear. And his appearance was so satisfactory—wasn't it ? " Mother was obviously enraptured. " I mean he looked so very well kept. Did you notice his hands ? Every nail shone like a diamond. I must say I do like to see . . ."

She broke off. She came over to Milly and patted her big collar straight.

" You do think it was right of me to ask him to lunch—don't you, dear ? " said Mother pathetically.

Mother made her feel so big, so tall. But she was tall. She could pick Mother up in her arms. Sometimes, rare moods came when she did. Swooped on Mother who squeaked like a mouse and even kicked. But not lately. Very seldom now . . .

" It was so strange," said Mother. There page 93 was the still, bright, exalted glance again. " I suddenly seemed to hear Father say to me ' Ask him to lunch.' And then there was some— warning... I think it was about the wine. But that I didn't catch—very unfortunately," she added, mournfully. She put her hand on her breast; she bowed her head. " Father is still so near," she whispered.

Milly looked out of the window. She hated Mother going on like this. But of course she couldn't say anything. Out of the window there was the sea and the sunlight silver on the palms, like water dripping from silver oars. Milly felt a yearning—what was it ?—it was like a yearning to fly.

But Mother's voice brought her back to the salon, to the gilt chairs, the gilt couches, sconces, cabinets, the tables with the heavy-sweet flowers, the faded brocade, the pink-spotted Chinese dragons on the mantelpiece and the two Turks' heads in the fireplace that supported the broad logs.

" I think a leg of lamb would be nice, don't you, dear ? " said Mother. " The lamb is so very small and delicate just now. And men like nothing so much as plain roast meat. Yvonne prepares it so nicely, too, with that little frill of paper lace round the top of the leg. It always reminds me of something—I can't think what. But it certainly makes it look very attractive indeed."