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nervous about announcing this fact to her husband. George, she felt, would think it extraordinary and possibly ridiculous. But she was saved all trouble on this score. She had been too nervous to make her announcement at breakfast, and at two o’clock a telephone message came to the effect that Mr Packington would be dining in town.

      The evening was a great success. Mrs Packington had been a good dancer as a girl and under Claude Luttrell’s skilled guidance she soon picked up modern steps. He congratulated her on her gown and also on the arrangement of her hair. (An appointment had been made for her that morning with a fashionable hairdresser.) On bidding her farewell, he kissed her hand in a most thrilling manner. Mrs Packington had not enjoyed an evening so much for years.

      A bewildering ten days ensued. Mrs Packington lunched, teaed, tangoed, dined, danced and supped. She heard all about Claude Luttrell’s sad childhood. She heard the sad circumstances in which his father lost all his money. She heard of his tragic romance and his embittered feelings towards women generally.

      On the eleventh day they were dancing at the Red Admiral. Mrs Packington saw her spouse before he saw her. George was with the young lady from his office. Both couples were dancing.

      ‘Hallo, George,’ said Mrs Packington lightly, as their orbits brought them together.

      It was with considerable amusement that she saw her husband’s face grow first red, then purple with astonishment. With the astonishment was blended an expression of guilt detected.

      Mrs Packington felt amusedly mistress of the situation. Poor old George! Seated once more at her table, she watched them. How stout he was, how bald, how terribly he bounced on his feet! He danced in the style of twenty years ago. Poor George, how terribly he wanted to be young! And that poor girl he was dancing with had to pretend to like it. She looked bored enough now, her face over his shoulder where he couldn’t see it.

      How much more enviable, thought Mrs Packington contentedly, was her own situation. She glanced at the perfect Claude, now tactfully silent. How well he understood her. He never jarred–as husbands so inevitably did jar after a lapse of years.

      She looked at him again. Their eyes met. He smiled; his beautiful dark eyes, so melancholy, so romantic, looked tenderly into hers.

      ‘Shall we dance again?’ he murmured.

      They danced again. It was heaven!

      She was conscious of George’s apologetic gaze following them. It had been the idea, she remembered, to make George jealous. What a long time ago that was! She really didn’t want George to be jealous now. It might upset him. Why should he be upset, poor thing? Everyone was so happy…

      Mr Packington had been home an hour when Mrs Packington got in. He looked bewildered and unsure of himself.

      ‘Humph,’ he remarked. ‘So you’re back.’

      Mrs Packington cast off an evening wrap which had cost her forty guineas that very morning. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m back.’

      George coughed. ‘Er–rather odd meeting you.’

      ‘Wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Packington.

      ‘I–well, I thought it would be a kindness to take that girl somewhere. She’s been having a lot of trouble at home. I thought–well, kindness, you know.’

      Mrs Packington nodded. Poor old George–bouncing on his feet and getting so hot and being so pleased with himself.

      ‘Who’s that chap you were with? I don’t know him, do I?’

      ‘Luttrell, his name is. Claude Luttrell.’

      ‘How did you come across him?’

      ‘Oh, someone introduced me,’ said Mrs Packington vaguely.

      ‘Rather a queer thing for you to go out dancing–at your time of life. Musn’t make a fool of yourself, my dear.’

      Mrs Packington smiled. She was feeling much too kindly to the universe in general to make the obvious reply. ‘A change is always nice,’ she said amiably.

      ‘You’ve got to be careful, you know. A lot of these lounge-lizard fellows going about. Middle-aged women sometimes make awful fools of themselves. I’m just warning you, my dear. I don’t like to see you doing anything unsuitable.’

      ‘I find the exercise very beneficial,’ said Mrs Packington.

      ‘Um–yes.’

      ‘I expect you do, too,’ said Mrs Packington kindly. ‘The great thing is to be happy, isn’t it? I remember your saying so one morning at breakfast, about ten days ago.’

      Her husband looked at her sharply, but her expression was devoid of sarcasm. She yawned.

      ‘I must go to bed. By the way, George, I’ve been dreadfully extravagant lately. Some terrible bills will be coming in. You don’t mind, do you?’

      ‘Bills?’ said Mr Packington.

      ‘Yes. For clothes. And massage. And hair treatment. Wickedly extravagant I’ve been–but I know you don’t mind.’

      She passed up the stairs. Mr Packington remained with his mouth open. Maria had been amazingly nice about this evening’s business; she hadn’t seemed to care at all. But it was a pity she had suddenly taken to spending Money. Maria–that model of economy!

      Women! George Packington shook his head. The scrapes that girl’s brothers had been getting into lately. Well, he’d been glad to help. All the same–and dash it all, things weren’t going too well in the city.

      Sighing, Mr Packington in his turn slowly climbed the stairs.

      Sometimes words that fail to make their effect at the time are remembered later. Not till the following morning did certain words uttered by Mr Packington really penetrate his wife’s consciousness.

      Lounge lizards; middle-aged women; awful fools of themselves.

      Mrs Packington was courageous at heart. She sat down and faced facts. A gigolo. She had read all about gigolos in the papers. Had read, too, of the follies of middle-aged women.

      Was Claude a gigolo? She supposed he was. But then, gigolos were paid for and Claude always paid for her. Yes, but it was Mr Parker Pyne who paid, not Claude–or, rather, it was really her own two hundred guineas.

      Was she a middle-aged fool? Did Claude Luttrell laugh at her behind her back? Her face flushed at the thought.

      Well, what of it? Claude was a gigolo. She was a middle-aged fool. She supposed she should have given him something. A gold cigarette case. That sort of thing.

      A queer impulse drove her out there and then to Asprey’s. The cigarette case was chosen and paid for. She was to meet Claude at Claridge’s for lunch.

      As they were sipping coffee she produced it from her bag. ‘A little present,’ she murmured.

      He looked up, frowned. ‘For me?’

      ‘Yes. I–I hope you like it.’

      His hand closed over it and he slid it violently across the table. ‘Why did you give me that? I won’t take it. Take it back. Take it back, I say.’ He was angry. His dark eyes flashed.

      She murmured, ‘I’m sorry,’ and put it away in her bag again.

      There was constraint between them that day.

      The following morning he rang her up. ‘I must see you. Can I come to your house this afternoon?’

      She told him to come at three o’clock.

      He arrived very white, very tense. They greeted each other. The constraint was more evident.

      Suddenly he sprang up and stood facing her. ‘What do you think I am? That is what I’ve come to ask you. We’ve been friends, haven’t we? Yes, friends. But all the same, you think I’m–well, a gigolo. A creature who lives on women. A lounge

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