The Flowering Thorn Read Online Free PDF Page B

something off.
    â€œAh, that means you’re judging by your own generation. This young man may be at the other end of the swing. But in any case, it’s hardly your responsibility.”
    Under that really ridiculous hat his niece looked at him oddly.
    â€œOh yes it is, Uncle Graham,” said she.
    The retort had been irresistible: but it left too much to the imagination. With genuine interest Mr. Whittal looked from Pat’s flaming head to her own dark shingle.
    â€œHis name,” said Lesley explicitly, “is Patrick Craigie, and he is the son of Aunt Alice’s companion, who died a month ago, by a father unknown, also dead, but legally married. I’ve adopted him.”
    â€œDear me,” said Uncle Graham.
    On the other side of the railings a pelican suddenly shook out its wings, spread-eagling with gawky pride before a couple of indifferent companions.
    â€œAnd where do I come in?” asked Mr. Whittal.
    Lesley looked at him intelligently.
    â€œWell, I was going to lead up to it,” she said, “but aren’t you something to do with the Bluecoat School?”
    So that was it! Of all things on earth she was out after school fees! And deep in his heart there was something that sighed. Axes to grind—there was no getting away from them! Well, it was very natural: the old had, and the young wanted.
    â€œI am,” said Mr. Whittal, quite unaware how long he had been silent. “I happen to be a Governor.”
    â€œAnd you can get small boys into it?”
    â€œI can nominate them, if that’s what you mean. The small boy has also his share. He has to be able to read and write, for example—”
    One hand on his arm, Lesley smiled delightfully.
    â€œCome back to my Club, darling, and tell me there. You won’t believe it, but the sherry’s marvellous.”
    Graham Whittal looked at her. Whatever she wanted she was obviously going to get: but it was long indeed since a young woman had made eyes at him. With a perfectly clear view of his own motives, therefore, he followed her into a taxi and prepared himself for the shearing.

CHAPTER FIVE
    The old, noted Lesley, are always wrong.
    The reflection, in all its gnomic simplicity, occurred to her at the breakfast-table, having been crystallised, as it were, from a hundred scattered musings, by the simultaneous arrival of three invitations to dinner and a card for an At Home. In circles unknown to Mrs. Bassington her niece’s adoption of a baby boy was being hailed as something so amusing and original that Lesley had not yet lunched or dined off the Yellow House china.
    The Yellow House was charming, and they had it to themselves. Exactly a week earlier their host had welcomed them with his foot on the doorstep and a passport in his hand: the man in Paris, he said, would be there after all. Lesley expressed her regret, honoured such devotion to duty; and with a single interested glance at the colour of Pat’s hair, Mr. Ashton flung himself into a taxi and was seen no more.
    â€˜Dear Toby!’ thought Lesley. She felt quite a genuine affection for him; she even toyed, over the last of her coffee, with the idea of a second and unchaperoned visit at some future date. For the Yellow House, out of which he had so gallantly ejected himself, was exactly her idea of a small Town residence: compact, picturesque, and with one really large room over the next-door garage. One could give some very amusing parties there, in—other circumstances; it was definitely something to bear in mind. In the meantime, however, on the other side of Mr. Ashton’s breakfast-table, Patrick Craigie sat finishing a rusk.
    Lesley looked across at him, over the black-and-yellow china, and wondered what, if anything, to say. The news, the weather, the invitations?—all obviously impossible: and she had already seen he had enough to eat. Conscientiously but in vain Lesley sought for a suitable topic: in a year or