Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers Page B

a new flat in Mecklenburg Square, and settled down to work at the Carcassonne novel.
    A trifling incident, soon after her return, gave her the opportunity to test her own reactions. She went down to Ascot, in company with a witty young woman writer and her barrister husband—partly for fun and partly because she wanted to get local colour for a short story, in which an unhappy victim was due to fall suddenly dead in the Royal Enclosure, just at the exciting moment when all eyes were glued upon the finish of a race. Scanning those sacred precincts, therefore, from without the pale, Harriet became aware that the local colour included a pair of slim shoulders tailored to swooning-point and carrying a well-known parrot profile, thrown into prominence by the acute backward slant of a pale-grey topper. A froth of summer hats billowed about this apparition, so that it resembled a slightly grotesque but expensive orchid in a bouquet of roses. From the expressions of the parties, Harriet gathered that the summer hats were picking long-priced and impossible outsiders, and that the topper was receiving their instructions with an amusement amounting to hilarity. At any rate, his attention was well occupied.
    “Excellent,” thought Harriet; “nothing to trouble about there.” She came home rejoicing in the exceptional tranquillity of her own spirits. Three days later, while reading in the morning paper that among the guests at a literary luncheon-party had been seen “Miss Harriet Vane, the well-known detective authoress”, she was interrupted by the telephone. A familiar voice said, with a curious huskiness and uncertainty:
    “Miss Harriet Vane?... Is that you, Harriet? I saw you were back. Will you dine with me one evening?”
    There were several possible answers; among them, the repressive and disconcerting “ Who is that speaking, please?” Being unprepared and naturally honest, Harriet feebly replied:
    “Oh, thank you, Peter. But I don’t know whether...”
    “What?” said the voice, with a hint of mockery. “Every night booked from now till the coming of the Coqcigrues?”
    “Of course not,” said Harriet, not at all willing to pose as the swollen-headed and much-run-after celebrity.
    “Then say when.”
    “I’m free tonight,” said Harriet, thinking that the shortness of the notice might force him to plead a previous engagement.
    “Admirable,” said he. “So am I. We will taste the sweets of freedom. By the way, you have changed your telephone number.”
    “Yes—I’ve got a new flat.”
    “Shall I call for you? Or will you meet me at Ferrara’s at 7 o’clock?”
    “At Ferrara’s?”
    “Yes. Seven o’clock, if that’s not too early. Then we can go on to a show, if you care about it. Till this evening, then. Thank you.”
    He hung up the receiver before she had time to protest. Ferrara’s was not the place she would have chosen. It was both fashionable and conspicuous. Everybody who could get there, went there; but its charges were so high that, for the present at least, it could afford not to be crowded. That meant that if you went there you were seen. If one intended to break off a connection with anyone, it was perhaps not the best opening move to afficher one’s self with him at Ferrara’s.
    Oddly enough, this would be the first time she had dined in the West End with Peter Wimsey. During the first year or so after her trial, she had not wanted to appear anywhere, even had she then been able to afford the frocks to appear in. In those days, he had taken her to the quieter and better restaurants in Soho, or, more often, carried her off, sulky and rebellious, in the car to such roadside inns as kept reliable cooks. She had been too listless to refuse these outings, which had probably done something to keep her from brooding, even though her host’s imperturbable cheerfulness had often been repaid only with bitter or distressful words. Looking back, she was as much amazed by his patience as