It was her best bit of phrasing and it pleased Benham very much.  But, indeed, it was not her own phrasing, she had culled it from a disquisition into which she had led Mr. Rathbone-Sanders, and she had sent it to Benham as she might have sent him a flower.

6

Benham re-entered the flat from which he had fled so precipitately with three very definite plans in his mind.  The first was to set out upon his grand tour of the world with as little delay as possible, to shut up this Finacue Street establishment for a long time, and get rid of the soul-destroying perfections of Merkle.  The second was to end his ill-advised intimacy with little Mrs. Skelmersdale as generously and cheerfully as possible.  The third was to bring Lady Marayne into social relations with the Wilder and Morris MENAGE at South Harting.  It did not strike him that there was any incompatibility among these projects or any insurmountable difficulty in any of them until he was back in his flat.

The accumulation of letters, packages and telephone memoranda upon his desk included a number of notes and slips to remind him that both Mrs. Skelmersdale and his mother were ladies of some determination.  Even as he stood turning over the pile of documents the mechanical vehemence of the telephone filled him with a restored sense of the adverse will in things.  “Yes, mam,” he heard Merkle’s voice, “yes, mam.  I will tell him, mam.  Will you keep possession, mam.”  And then in the doorway of the study, “Mrs. Skelmersdale, sir.  Upon the telephone, sir.”

Benham reflected with various notes in his hand.  Then he went to the telephone.

“You Wicked Boy, where have you been hiding?”

“I’ve been away.  I may have to go away again.”

“Not before you have seen me.  Come round and tell me all about it.”

Benham lied about an engagement.

“Then to-morrow in the morning.” . . .  Impossible.

“In the afternoon.  You don’t want to see me.”  Benham did want to see her.

“Come round and have a jolly little evening to-morrow night.  I’ve got some more of that harpsichord music.  And I’m dying to see you.  Don’t you understand?”

Further lies.  “Look here,” said Benham, “can you come and have a talk in Kensington Gardens?  You know the place, near that Chinese garden.  Paddington Gate. . . .”

The lady’s voice fell to flatness.  She agreed.  “But why not come to see me here?” she asked.

Benham hung up the receiver abruptly.

He walked slowly back to his study.  “Phew!” he whispered to himself.  It was like hitting her in the face.  He didn’t want to be a brute, but short of being a brute there was no way out for him from this entanglement.  Why, oh! why the devil had he gone there to lunch? . . .