Mad About the Boy? Read Online Free PDF Page A

redder than usual. Must be rotten, being fat in a crush like this.’ He was bordering on inanity, but he guessed it was helping. ‘Oh, God have mercy, he’s going to make a speech. We might have known he couldn’t resist the opportunity.’
    The entire party followed Lord Lyvenden and Lady Harriet outside on to the lawn. Haldean wedged himself beside the french windows and gave himself up to the dubious pleasure of listening to Lyvenden’s raptures on This Happy Occasion of his hosts’ Argent Anniversary.
    Haldean grinned in involuntary appreciation and settled back to enjoy the speech. The florid always made him smile and Lord Lyvenden had struck a rich vein. Lord Lyvenden, it appeared, was happy (
great and unalloyed gratification
) to be here. Lord Lyvenden hoped that everyone else was equally happy
(share my jubilation)
and offered his congratulations
(heartfelt felicities)
to Sir Philip and Lady Rivers. He humbly offered, as a small token of his regard, a display of fireworks, or, as he preferred to phrase it,
These Polychromatic Pyrotechnics,
a phrase that reduced Haldean to discreet hiccups of laughter.
    He turned to share the joke with Stanton, but his friend had vanished. Concerned, Haldean tried to see where he had gone, but was hemmed in by the crowd. Lyvenden, in fine fettle, allowed himself a few more orotund flourishes before he abruptly decided to sink the public man in the private. ‘Harriet, my dear,’ he boomed at half volume to his wife. ‘You should not be out here without your shawl. You might take cold.’
    â€˜Nonsense, Victor,’ she drawled. ‘The night is perfectly fine.’
    â€˜Nevertheless, I shall send for it directly.’ His eyes roamed over the crowd but for once Preston had managed to stay out of sight. Yvette, Lady Harriet’s maid, who was standing with the rest of the servants behind the guests, was dispatched. On the terrace, Lord Lyvenden gave the assembled company the benefit of Some Further Thoughts. Turning, Haldean caught sight of Stanton by the door. Muttering excuses, he pushed his way to the back of the group.
    Stanton nodded to him. ‘Sorry I disappeared, Jack. I couldn’t stand the crowd.’
    â€˜We’ll stay here if you like. No need to mix it with hoi polloi.’
    Lord Lyvenden produced a triumphant and, thankfully, final rhetorical embellishment, then summoned his foreman, who took a length of fuse from his khaki dust-coat and handed it over. Then, with as much ceremony as would attend the launch of a transatlantic liner, Lyvenden lit the fuse and handed it back to his waiting employee. The foreman walked over to the silent display and, on a signal from Lord Lyvenden, lit the touchpapers. There was a terrific crash, rockets zoomed and the sky lit up in a blaze of colour.
    â€˜My God,’ breathed Haldean. ‘It’s like the Somme.’
    Beside him, Stanton groaned and shielded his eyes. Haldean took one look at his ashen face then grasped him firmly by the arm, shepherding his unresisting friend out of the ballroom and into the drawing room.
    Here, at the front of the house, the noise was deadened. Stanton slumped in a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Sorry, Jack. Stupid of me. When those fireworks went off I felt as if I’d had all the stuffing knocked out of me. Is that soda water on the sideboard? Could you get me some?’
    Haldean gave him a drink and straddled his legs over a chair, watching Stanton fumble for a cigarette. His case was empty. ‘Here, have one of mine.’ Stanton took his lighter from his pocket and spun the little wheel for a few moments, unable to get it to light. Haldean struck a match. ‘Use this. What on earth’s the matter, Arthur? Surely it’s not just the fireworks?’
    â€˜Mind your own bloody business,’ snarled Stanton, and was immediately contrite at the sight of Haldean’s hurt expression. ‘Sorry.