The Withdrawing Room by Charlotte MacLeod Page B

been bothered by his defection, as Professor Ormsby at once closed in and began expounding some fascinating nugget of aerodynamical lore to the green chiffon scarf that only half screened her magnificent ramparts.
    The dinner was excellent, the conversation much improved by the removal of Mr. Quiffen and the addition of jolly, voluble Mr. Hartler and quiet but impressive Mr. Bittersohn. Charles passed the sauceboat and refilled the wineglasses with even more lofty dignity than was his wont. This, his demeanor made clear, was a real jazzy turnout.
    Sarah was in the habit of rotating her boarders at the table so that nobody could complain of feeling slighted. Tonight she’d put Mr. Hartler and Mr. Bittersohn beside her. After Charles had cleared away the main course and was having a gorgeous time setting fire to a chafing dish full of canned peaches that Sarah had found on sale and turned into a modified version of pêches flambées, Bittersohn surprised her by saying in a somewhat louder tone than he’d been using, “About those illustrations you promised to do for me, Mrs. Kelling. I hope it’s not uncouth to mention business at the table, but my publisher’s pressing me for a delivery date. Do you think we could discuss them sometime soon?”
    “Why, of course.” Sarah was surprised. She’d thought his idea about a book on antique jewelry had been dropped. Did he really mean to go ahead with it, or was this an excuse to talk with her about something else, such as Mary Smith and Mr. Quiffen? Anyway, she’d better play along.
    “I’m so sorry. I did promise to get back to you ages ago, didn’t I?”
    As the rest of the boarders looked puzzled, she explained to the table at large, “My husband and I used to do a good deal of book illustrating. He was a marvelous photographer. That’s some of his work on the walls.”
    She’d finally got to hang some of Alexander’s framed prints in the dining room where she’d always wanted to put them but had never been allowed to while her mother-in-law was alive. Everybody admired the exquisitely sensitive photography for a moment in respectful silence, then Miss LaValliere burbled, “Can’t we see some of yours?”
    “If you like. There are several books in the library that we worked on. My contributions are mostly just little line sketches. That’s how Mr. Bittersohn and I happened to become acquainted. We were introduced by his publisher, who recommended me for a book he’s doing. But then I—well, you all know what happened so we shan’t go into that. I do still have those photographs I’m supposed to be working from upstairs in my studio, Mr. Bittersohn. Perhaps you and I might have our discussion there later this evening instead of boring everybody else with it now.”
    “I don’t want to push you,” he protested quite convincingly.
    “But I need to be pushed. I knew I should be getting back to the job and I simply couldn’t make myself get started.”
    “Creative work must be terribly difficult,” said Mrs. Sorpende. She was looking politely unconvinced, Sarah thought. Either they weren’t acting as well as Sarah had thought, or else Mrs. Sorpende was a remarkably perspicacious woman.
    “I’ll bring down some of the photographs to show you, if Mr. Bittersohn doesn’t mind.” Maybe that would wipe the skepticism off that Mona Lisa face. “They’re quite breathtaking. This book is about antique jewelry, a subject on which Mr. Bittersohn is quite expert, though he’s too modest to say so himself.”
    “How can I be modest, since I’m writing a book about it?” the man replied.
    “I thought you’d been dragooned into doing it by the Jewelers’ Guild or whatever they call it. Didn’t you say you’d been given a grant?”
    “I didn’t, but apparently our mutual whatever-you-call-him did.”
    “Oh, dear, wasn’t I supposed to tell?”
    “It doesn’t matter. In any event, I expect all these people are mainly interested in the fact that