Woman July 7 1956 Page 26/27

"Patsy," said Dennis earnestly. 

"I suppose you wouldn't marry me?" 

"Darling," said Patsy lightly. 

"I don't think it would do"

The Grafton Girls by MARY HOWARD

ILLUSTRATED by COLEMAN

The story begins:

LADY GRAFTON sighed with exasperation. It was her custom every Christmas to invite her brother-in-law, AMBROSE GRAFTON  and his twin daughters to Maitlands. But this Christmas of 1910 was different. The twins were very attractive seventeen-year-olds. She didn't want either of her sons, CHARLES or ALAN, falling in love with them: they had no money.

 In an unfashionable house near Brixton, young CYNTHIA and PATSY , GRAFT'ON were sighing, too. Cynthia was thinking of the coming ball at Maitlands and of handsome cousin Alan, and Patsy was dreaming of the , brassy beat of a music hall, orchestra.

Ever since she could remember, Patsy had wanted to go on the stage, and now the cook's nephew, a music hall dancer called DENNIS RORKE, had asked her to be his partner. But, Patsy thought wistfully, it wasn't done for a well brought-up young lady to "go on the halls," and anyway where was the money for her dancing lessons coming from? Ambrose Grafton, Patsy's feckless, charming father, never had any.

On boxing night, as the twins descended the stairs for the annual Maitlands ball, their hearts were beating with excitement. Cousin Alan came up to them immediately, saying teasingly: "Hallo, babies, how many dances can you spare me?"

Adoration spilled out of their eyes. He was so handsome. Patsy forgot all about the stage as she envisaged dancing with Alan. But Alan had eyes for no one but Cynthia, and later that evening, he hurried her into the conservatory.

He put his arm round her.

"All evening, I've been longing to kiss you, Cynthia," he said. " Will you let me?" .

Cynthia knew it was wrong to let a man kiss you, but who could resist Alan? Suddenly Charles and Patsy burst in. There was a strained silence before Charles said: "Go along, twins, we'll follow you in a minute."

When they had gone, Charles spoke to Alan sharply. "What do you think you're doing? The twins are pretty and poor and they have no one to chaperone them. You've probably made Cynthia believe she's in love with you."

"I am sorry, Charlie," Alan said with sudden sincerity. "I'll apologize, then go up to town for two days."

Charles nodded, then grinned.

But upstairs in a dark little attic, Patsy had hidden herself away to cry her heart out. Alan was in love with Cynthia. They would probably marry and she would be left all alone.

Two stars beckoned the twins: 
one brilliant as a diamond, 
the other steadily glowing. 
Willingly, eagerly, the two girls followed.
continued on page 28

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PATSY did not know how long she sat there in the musty darkness. Suddenly she heard footsteps on the bare wooden stairs outside. She sat up, startled and afraid, thinking of ghosts.
The door opened, and she jumped to her feet, with a little exclamation. "Electric light!" she cried.
"Oh, there you are," said Charles. He glanced at her tear-stained face, and gave an inward groan of exasperation and sympathy. Patsy too ! Sometimes, when he stopped thinking of more important things, he had been a little envious of Alan's success with girls. But tonight it seemed nothing but a nuisance.
He had always had a feeling about Patsy, ever since they were children. He still considered her a child, but she was the most exciting and amusing child he knew.
He looked at her now, and said cautiously: "Is anything wrong?" "My heart," Patsy said, and the tears began to run down her face  again, "is broken!" .
She didn't quite know what she had expected him to say, but he merely grinned and said: "Stuff and nonsense. You're too young."
He sat down on the upturned crate beside her, and brought out a large clean white handkerchief. Her own small cambric one was sopping wet.
"Here," he said, "blow." She buried her nose gratefully and suddenly felt very much better.
"You're very attractive, Patsy," he said reassuringly.
"Alan didn't even look at me," she wailed. "He didn't even ask me for a dance. Not one."
"Don't worry," he said grimly. " He will given time."
"I suppose," she said solemnly, "that he and Cynthia are engaged. If they are, I shall have to be a bridesmaid, I don't think I could b-bear that."
"I shouldn't, well, I shouldn't take the matter too seriously."
"But he was kissing her."
"Yes, well... well. . ." he said uncomfortably. "Anyway, suppose we don't talk about it."
"Oh, I wouldn't breathe a word," she said importantly. "I know that Aunt Eleanor would object strongly to either of us."
She had a sudden romantic vision of a runaway wedding, and Ambrose and Aunt Eleanor behaving like the Montagues and Capulets in Romeo and Juliet.
She gave a big sigh. "I suppose it's being twins. I mean being fated to love the same man."
"It might just be a coincidence," suggested Charles. "After all, you're very unalike."
They sat for a moment in companionable silence, Patsy looking vaguely about the room. There was a work bench, and a lot of mysterious equipment which might have been anything or nothing; a phonograph with a huge green and black horn, a big table spread with papers, pencils, rules, set squares and, against the walls in rough shelves, books and books with long technical titles she could hardly pronounce. .
" Patsy gave a little sigh, and looked away from them. "You must be very clever if you have read all those."
"My parents don't think so. They think I'm mad."
"When you've learned everything what will you do?"
"No one learns everything," he said slowly. "You learn as much as you can, and then you have to learn to use what you know. I want to put my knowledge to some use in the future."
" How?" Patsy asked. "Do you want to be a soldier, like Alan?" "No, I'd rather make the weapons for soldiers. Michael Dundridge says that one day weapons will be so dangerous no one will dare to fight. That'll be the Peace Age."
"Who is Mr. Dundridge?"
"A professor. The man I work with at South Kensington." His eyes glowed with hero-worship. .
"He's a wonderful man," he went on. "A wonderful man. Working with him is like, well, like watching creation."
"Perhaps you'll be a professor yourself one day. You will if you want to. I think that people can do anything if they really, truly want to."
He glanced at the small, eager face, snub-nose, big eyes, and smiled. He took Patsy's hand in his, patted it, and said: "What are you going to do, Patsy? "
  SIGHING heavily Patsy said: "Oh, I don't know what I'll do. Stay at home, I suppose, and help Rorky. Mrs. Woodruffe says she may, well sort of bring us out, dances and things." Her voice sounded disconsolate. "But Papa can't afford clothes for us really. I mean, you can't rely on racehorses."
"You don't sound very keen on coming out."
"I'm not. It's stupid. Oh, I like having, fun. But being dragged round, hoping to catch a husband. It's awful. There is one thing I'd like to do."
"What?"
"Go on the stage."
"The stage," he laughed. "But Patsy, that's very difficult. It's a hard life, difficult to get in."
Her face flushed. "I'm in, if I want. If I dare. Have you seen me dance? Not just waltzing. Real stage dancing. Look, put the phonograph on."
  CHARLES put on a record, and the thin, scratchy ghost of a song echoed through the big attic. Patsy stood poised, getting the beat, and then, with all the bravura of a real professional, she went into a song and dance. 
Charles watched, astounded. This was quite different from the pretty little recitations, the nice little sentimental songs at the piano.
This ,was professional entertainment. When she finished her dance, swirling down into a curtsey, he began to clap.
"Where on earth did you learn all this?" he said. ,
She told him all of it right up to Dennis Rorke's offer.
"But I haven't any money," she explained. "I can't ask Papa. If I take it, I've got to have professional lessons for months, and rehearse with Dennis in a proper rehearsal room. It's got to be kept a secret until I'm a success. I'll never do it."
He put out his hands and caught her shoulders, and his eyes met hers with an expression she had never seen in them before. "Oh; yes, you will do it. You've got to."
"Charles! " She stared at him doubtfully, not quite believing him.
"I must be moon struck he said.
"I didn't realize. Patsy. I had no idea you could." Words failed him as he tried to tell her what she had done in those few minutes.
She had not been Patsy at all, she had not even been young. She had been ageless. Cool, with a charming, witty grace, a little arrogant, with the royal tough of the star.
His hands gripped her shoulders.
"I don't know what to say. Mother would say I was sending you to perdition, and your father would probably shoot me, but I'll let you have the money for the lessons."
"But, I couldn't take money from you, Charles."
The impatient hands shook her again, almost lifting her level to meet his eyes. "Are we friends, cousins, fellow conspirators? Or are we just ordinary people? We're not ordinary, Patsy, you and I. We want to do different things. Things other people think odd, or mad. We know they're worth doing."
"All right." She was fired by his enthusiasm. Because he believed in her, it made her plans reality. She could go on the stage, if she really wanted to, and she would.
"I can pay you back when I'm rich," she said childishly.
"Forget it," said Charles, "You pay me back by being a success; Promise."
"I promise," she said eagerly. Dear old Charles, he was wonderful. He was like a real brother. He made everything seem possible.
Suddenly she was longing to get back to Brixton to tell Dennis. She had completely forgotten about her broken heart. 
  IT was a Monday evening, and it was May. Ambrose lingered courteously, concealing his impatience, playing the host. He thought it was very nice of young Charles to come over to Brixton to amuse the girls. Ever since Christmas, the boy, who was a student at the Imperial College and had rooms in Bloomsbury, had taken to visiting them frequently.
Ambrose doubted whether his mother knew of the visits, or would approve if she did. She disliked a pretty face without money behind it.
Ambrose tried to be grateful to the boy for coming over, although he found it disturbing. Away from Brixton, when his office closed at five, Ambrose led the pleasant, idle clubman's life he had led when he still had money, managing to forget his responsibilities. Charles's occasional presence at Brixton reminded him he had two eighteen-year-old daughters,by whom he was scarcely doing his duty.
Tonight Charles had come to take them and Mrs. Rorke to an exhibition over at Earl's Court.
Ambrose was going over to a bohemian club, called the Barbarians, where he was going to dine with a friend. He wanted to get off pretty sharply, yet he did not want to seem discourteous.
He offered Charles a glass of sherry, chatted about how glad he would be when his friend's wife, Mrs. Woodruffe, was stationed  in town, and could take the girls round for him a bit, spoke of family matters and the state of the Stock Exchange.
Charles retained an admirably calm front. Then Rorky came in settling her little fur tippet, announcing that she had called a cab.
"Cab all the way to the exhibition, eh?" said Ambrose with interest. "By Jove, you are giving the girls a treat!"
"We'll have a lot of walking to do when we get there, sir," lied Charles stoically. "I don’t want Mrs. Rorke to be tired."
They all stood round, terrified Ambrose was going to suggest riding some of the way with them. If he did, Charles knew that Patsy would explode and Cynthia would burst into tears.
It was half past five already. Patsy and Dennis were no in the first house, and they had to drive all the way to the Islington.
"Well, we must be getting along, sir," he said "Sorry we can't give you a lift, but it's rather a crush."
"Oh, that's quite all right, my boy," said Ambrose genially. "Off you go now, and yourselves and tell me all about it tomorrow.
 THEY flew out of the house and into the waiting cab, all of them bursting into shrieks of nervous laughter the minute they had driven away.
"Mr. Charles," cried Rorky "how- ever did you keep a straight face?"
"Natural expression, Rorky," he said. "Can't help it. Here," he handed out three papers. "Guides to the exhibition. Try not read them, you’ve got to know something about this exhibition tomorrow."
"It's awful," said Cynthia. "We'll never keep it up! Not if Patsy's a success."
"There's no if about it; she's got to be a success," said Charles with an attempt at lightness. The laughter had tightened into nervous tension again.
Rorky squeezed Cynthia's hand. "Don't you worry Miss Cynthy, it's not your trouble. What your dad don’t see can’t grieve him, and when Miss Patsy's bringing in ten golden sovereigns a week, he'll not have much to say against that, I'll be bound."
Cynthia screwed her little gloved hands tightly together. She wished Patsy was not doing this awful thing. Even if Papa finally approved, no one else would. Not Uncle Raymond and Aunt Eleanor, they couldn't!
She wondered miserably if Alan had heard about it already, and that was why she had not had a word from him. He had lifted her up to happiness at that Christmas dance, and in her youth and inexperience she had not doubted that he was sincere.
He had, as he had promised Charles, apologized prettily.
"You’re too sweet, Cynthia," he had said during their last dance together.
"I'm afraid I lost my head. You will forgive me won't you? "
Of course she had forgiven him, but she had expected something else, a note, a word.
They had spent a few days at Maitlands during Easter, but Alan had discreetly accepted an invitation, to the delight of his mother, to another part of the country.
Meanwhile, the dreary days went on and on; walking to school, teaching the babies, walking back in the afternoon. Sitting at home in the evening with Rorky, going out for a walk on Sundays and slowly taking more and more responsibility at home. 
Patsy, nowadays, was never there. The moment her father was out, she was off to her dancing lessons with Madame Ninette.
  PATSY sat looking out of the window, her piquant little face deadly white, her hand clinging on to Charles's tightly.
He glanced at her in dismay. Watching her dance, and hearing her sing in his attic that night of the boxing night ball had been one thing: This was quite another.
Then he had been certain she must follow her star. Tonight, taking her to her first show, to a low, tough outer-London music hall, he felt as though she were a martyr, and he had thrown her to the lions.
"I can't remember the words," she whispered.
"Yes, you can."
"I haven't rehearsed with the band. Everybody always does, but we couldn't, it was band rehearsal this, morning and Papa was in all day. I'll not get the tempo right. I'll miss the cues. Oh, I'll be a terrible flop."
"Dennis knows everything. He'll see you through."
"Supposing they don't like me?" Patsy said, terrified. "They'll throw things at me."
"You'll be all right."
"I think I'm going to be sick," said Patsy suddenly. Charles tapped on the glass, and with exemplary calm helped her out round the corner.
She came back looking white and several sizes smaller, but considerably steadier.
At the stage door of the Old Suffolk Music Hall, Dennis rushed forward to meet her.
"For heaven's sake, " he cried, "what kept you so long? I'm all of a dither, come on and get changed for goodness' sake."
It was as though he snatched her away from them into another world. As she vanished through the grubby door they stood and looked at each other doubtfully. Then Charles said:
"Wait a minute."
He went to a street barrow and bought a huge bunch of roses, took them to the stage door, and sent them in with his card. Then he walked round to the front of the house with Cynthia and Rorky and took a box.
The stalls were half empty; first house on Monday was always poor, but upstairs under the gilded roof, the " gods" murmured, whistled and ate oranges. There was a smell of beer and dust.
A trio of Chinese acrobats were tying themselves in knots on the stage, as they took their seats in the front of the box.
Hardly breathing, they watched the lights gleaming on the small muscular limbs. The act finished to a critical and unenthusiastic applause.
Then the band went briskly into a brassy Irish tune and a man in uniform slipped a large white card with a 6 printed on it into the holder by the side of the stage.
The three in the box suddenly held hands, forgetful of everything but the stage before them. The red velvetcurtains swung up. "The Two Shamrocks" were on.
They stepped out into the glare of the footlights and the waves of the music, Dennis taking the stage quite naturally, Patsy plunging in with a sort of wild desperation.
  "THE SHAMROCKS" were known at the Old Suffolk as a fairly successful turn. In spite of Dennis's notice in . The Stage, " Your Own Dennis with a GRAND NEW TURN and a GRAND NEW GIRL", the audience were not prepared for Patsy.
"The Shamrocks" had hardly taken two steps when a woman's raucous voice bawled from above:
"Where's young Hatty?"
Dennis flashed a smile, pointed to Patsy, and jerked his thumb upward,  indicating his new partner, was " a bit of all right."
But Patsy was stiff with nerves. She danced well, because she Was a born dancer, but her voice sounded thin and refined, and raised a menacing laugh in the audience.
"For Gawd's sake, smile at 'em," Dennis whispered. "Wake up or you’ll sink us both."
Automatically Patsy smiled, automatically she flashed her glances, mechanically she danced, but she was afraid, and the audience knew it, as an animal knows when its trainer falters.
She could last out until the end of this dance, but the next number, while Dennis changed, and blacked up quickly for his own coon number; was a solo. She was terrified at the thought of what might happen.
They danced off to a faint ripple of applause, and Dennis took her on for one call. She stood shivering as the orchestra took up her sentimental solo number.
He said, roughly, because there was no time to say anything to help her: "Go on, don't muff it. You'll be all right," but she could see by his eyes he wasn't sure.
She drew a deep breath and walked on. Madame Ninette had said: "If you're nervous, forget the audience, play to one
person." All right, Charles was there, she opened her mouth and, started to sing.
"In my garden of roses,
I'll be waiting for you."
And a woman's voice from the " gods" scoffed: "Ho, my, ain't we just the little lidy ! "
"In my garden of roses, 
There's a seat there for two. . "
Then suddenly she remembered the way she had sung this song at home in Brixton a couple of weeks ago. Her father had come in while she was practising with Dennis, and to make him laugh and halt his curiosity she had made a joke of it. So now, in a flash, she began to "cod," pretending to sit down, leaping up and apparently extracting a painful rose thorn from her behind.
A boy somewhere up in the darkness beyond the lights laughed, and her glance stopped the music, while she said in a deep, reproachful voice : "I see you've got that point."
Silly things came into her head; strewing flowers in burlesque of the Russian dancers, mocking herself, the foolish words, the sentimental tune, and the laughter came, and came, until suddenly she knew what Dennis meant when he said: "When you've really got 'em, there's nothing like it in the world."
Well, she had "em now. She had this audience like a matador and like a matador, when she had finished her act, she turned away, almost scornfully, her blue satin skirt twirling up, disdainfully, showing her long, lovely legs as she came off.
She stood listening. The applause was like hammer blows. Dennis came hurrying from" his dressing-room fastening his collar, listening.
"What happened?"
"I codded it," she said. "Like I did for Papa the other evening."
" You what?" he said horrified.
''Go on, 'Miss," the stage manager yelled. "Go on, and take a call."
She went back, smiling, blowing kisses, petting the dangerous animal, the audience, with her charm.
"We were going to keep this act straight," said Dennis. " Straight and refined."
She was by his side again. "I had to do it. I was getting the bird."
"All right, all right, we'll talk about it after. Go on and take another call before I start."
  PATSY took another, call, had the courage this time to look at the house. She saw Rorky, Cynthia and Charles rapturously applauding, and ran back to the dressing-room to black up to join Dennis in the final chorus and dance of the coon song.
Charles's flowers covered the table before the mirror. She snatched up his card, the tears stinging her eyes. Just as though she were a real actress not a miserable little try-out who had got by on a trick. Darling, darling old Charles. How good he was to her.
Rorky, Charles and Cynthia came round to congratulate her. There was a curious meal of hot meat pies, tea (and a stout for Rorky) sent in from the nearby shop, and then Charles had to take Cynthia and Rorky back home. 
Patsy would come home after the second house and, with any luck, would be back in Brixton an hour or more before Ambrose returned.
When they had gone, Dennis said thoughtfully: "Is that your fellow? "
Patsy touched her hair lightly. "He's my cousin. I've told you."
" But is he . . . is he keen on you?
" She stared at him, surprised. "No. Why?"
"Well, the flowers."
" Oh, now. He's just very nice. He sent them to cheer me up."
"Look, I don't want you getting married, young Pat, just as we get going. You're not in love with him, are you?"
"Oh, no,"  she said airily. "You needn't worry about me in the least, Dennis. I was in love once, but that's all over. I'm not interested in men at all."
"They're going to be interested in you, Patsy. You'll have to watch your step."
"Don't you worry. I'm not the little innocent I was four months ago."
" Patsy!" He came across and sat behind her, watching in the mirror as she tidied her hair. "You wouldn't . . . I suppose you wouldn't think of marrying me?"
She turned her head, green eyes wide, startled. Dennis was interesting, but she had never thought of him as anything but a partner and perhaps a friend.
Her visions of romance were always tall, soldierly.
She said: "Why on earth should you want to marry me? Just to keep me in the act?"
"It's not so silly as all that, Pat. There'll be a lot of fellows, and some with money. They, they fall in love with theatre girls, but they don't, usually want to marry them. Not the sort of young man you would want to marry, chaps like your cousin . . . gentlemen.
"When we get to the West End, and we shall, they'll be after you like wasps round a honey-pot. If you married me, Pat, I'd have the right to protect you, to keep them at a distance. "
  PATSY sat looking into her or, at the reflection of Dennis monkey-sad brown eyes.
She was not sure she wanted to be protected. Not by dear little Dennis anyway. She turned and kissed him, To her surprise he flushed startled.
Something which had been very childish in Patsy grew up. Dennis was a man, and she meant a lot more to him than he did to her. He could help her, teach her a great deal, but he couldn't hurt her, as Alan had, because she did not love him. She could hurt him, if she wanted to, but of course, she would never want to. 
But knowing she could, gave her her first real sense of feminine power.
"Darling," she said, for she was picking up the jargon like a little parrot, "it's very sweet of you, but I don't think it would do. We'd have to get Papa's consent as I'm only eighteen, and that would mean telling him about all this. Let's put that off to the last possible moment."
Twelve months after Patsy had made her debut at the Old Suffolk, Ambrose was dining at the Barbarian Club and trying to think what he should do with his evening.
Fortunately for Patsy, he never got home before midnight. It often worried him. He ought, he would say to himself to spend more time with his motherless girls.
Unfortunately the regiment had been sent to Gibraltar, so that Mrs. Woodruffe's plans for bringing them out had fallen through. Alan, of course, was in Gibraltar, too.
Just as Ambrose had finished his excellent meal, an acquaintance sat down at histable. He suggested they stroll along to the Tivoli.
"These 'Two Shamrocks' are on," the acquaintance said. "Seem to be coming on. Everyone's talking about the gel. They say 'she's a real comic."
Ambrose was delighted with the idea. He told the acquaintance he knew "The Two Shamrocks" well, "nephew and niece of my cook, known them since they were babies."
  IN the best of moods the two men strolled around to the great music hall, and bought tickets for the pit. In about ten minutes "The Two Shamrocks" were on, and Ambrose got the biggest shock of his life.
He sat through the show with ill-concealed impatience and when it was over, he lost no time in going back stage.
He was shown into the dressing-room between the two houses. Patsy was back into her costume for her first number, one with masses of pale pink ruffles and large black velvet bows. There were plenty of flowers about, a bottle of champagne and some glasses on a tray, and two well-kwown young men-about-town were gazing at her adoringly. .
Dennis in his evening clothes and top hat, was in earnest conversation with her. Patsy looked up as the door opened. She looked at her two admirers, and made a faint but expressive gesture towards the door.
They rose obediently and she turned to her father, not in the least afraid.
"Hallo, Papa," she said, " I've been expecting you for a long time."
"Have a glass of champagne,"said Dennis hospitably, pouring one out. He pulled a chair forward and Ambrose collapsed into it weakly.
"I don't know what to say, upon my word," he gasped. "Nearly had a heart attack. Patsy, whatever made you do it? "
"I wanted to."
"But what no earth are people going to say?"
"What people? I don't know any people. I'll bet Aunt Eleanor never goes to music halls or Uncle Raymond. Charles knows, but he's kept mum. I couldn't have done it without Charles."
"So that's why the young monkey had been round the house this last eighteen months." Suddenly, Ambrose could see the involved schemes to get him out of the house, and because he was Ambrose he was already, inwardly, beginning to chuckle. But that wouldn’t do at all.
"It won't do," he said aloud. " After all Pasty you are a Grafton. You'll want to marry, what chances will you have if this gets known?"
"Papa," she said softly, "I'm getting thirty pounds a week here." Ambrose choked thirty pounds a week, for a girl of nineteen!
"Of course, we don't get that in the smaller halls," said Patsy gravely. "They can't afford to pay us. But it looks as though we shan't be playing those at all soon, doesn't it, Dennis?"
"It certainly does. It's a great relief to us that you should know,  Mr. Grafton. It's been I a great anxiety to Patsy and me."
"I'll be, bound it has," said Ambrose, He hesitated. He ought not to allow it, but, thirty pounds a week! Patsy put her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
I think we ought to try and keep the secret in the family," she said, "for Cynthia's sake, we don't want to spoil her chances."
She gently propelled him out of the dressing-room.
Champagne! Thirty pounds a week! His little girl! And so sure of herself, and of him, damnation! But thirty pounds a week and from the way Patsy and young Dennis talked, this was only the beginning.
IT was April, 1914, a day that alternately smiled and showered, and it was the twins' birthday. They were twenty-one. Ambrose had muttered about a "little dinner" but as the day approached he had spoken of the shortage of funds, and the celebration had dwindled to the usual little present.
Patsy had laughed, not wanting anything else. Cynthia had hoped secretly for another dance at Maitlands, but her aunt and uncle had apparently forgotten.
The front bedroom on the first floor was Patsy's now. It had a pretty wallpaper in pale blue and and white, an enormous mirror, an enormous wardrobe, and a new and comfortable bed. All over the walls were stuck theatrical pictures of colleagues and friends.
She had decorated and refurnished the back bedroom for Cynthia, too. She could not bear for Cynthia to be left out.
They were always longing to be close to to each other, to be real twins, as they had been in their schooldays, refusing to admit that their different lives were drawing them apart.
Cynthia, already dressed in a neat white blouse and tweed skirt, was examining her letters. Patsy, sitting up in bed in a frilly lace and silk bed-jacket was surrounded with messages and gifts, telegrams and cards.
She still looked like a girl, but there was a quickness and authority about her, which Rorky called bossiness, and a swift sophistication that was not young at all.
She paused, frowning suddenly over a book about the Impressionist painters. Cynthia peeped over her shoulder.
"From Charles," Patsy said. "He took me to an exhibition the other afternoon. He thinks I'm an ill-educated brat. Funny, he encouraged me to go on the stage, and now he doesn't seem very pleased with the result."
"Did you enjoy the paintings?" said Cynthia artlessly.
Patsy thought of the visit to the gallery, where they had looked at the wonderful pictures and quarrelled nearly all the time. She didn't see why Charles should always be critical of her.
It was no use Charles telling her the fashionable, rich and often personable young men who followed her would not introduce her to their sisters and mothers. She told herself that she did not want to meet their stuffy sisters and mothers anyway.
She was not a penniless little ninny with marriage her only chance, neither was she a fast girl who wanted their money. She could earn plenty of her own.
All of which made it all the more infuriating when Charles said things like: "If you behave like this I shan't be able to take you among my friends."
"Because I'm on the halls?"· she had snapped. "That's fine coming from you."
He had snapped back with equal irritation: "No. Because you're becoming a shocking little bore. And you will always be a bore if you run round with those fashionable young idiots. Why can't you realize God gave you brains and abilities to enjoy yourself with as well as to work?"
She said aloud to Cynthia now: "Charles is becoming impossible these days. He's always talking about the war which he and his precious Mr. Dundridge are certain is coming, and raving about the unprepared state of the army."
But Cynthia wasn't listening. She was busily unwrapping her present from Patsy.
Patsy, thank you! It's lovely."
She drew out a beautiful and expensive hand-made blouse, crepe de chine with lace insertions. Her half dozen cards and small present from Rorky and her father looked very insignificant next to the sprawling mass of Patsy's gifts.
  PATSY turned and hugged Cynthia, then gave a little sigh. She spent quite a lot of money on Cynthia, but her twin had a: dull life. She couldn't. take her out with her on her nwo bohemian jaunts. Cynthia wasn't that type.
She said, her arm about Cynthia's shoulder: "Is it bad for you Cynthia, my getting on like this? I sometimes think I should never have started it. It's true Aunt Eleanor doesn't know yet. But perhaps if I hadn't gone on the stage, Papa would have made some attempt to do something for us-in society, I mean."
"It wouldn't have made any difference," said Cynthia quickly. "Except, of course, there'd be less money. Oh, look, I'd missed this one. . .." She picked up a letter, and her cheeks flushed eagerly. "It's from Mrs. Woodruffe."
"Mrs. Woodruffe?" repeated Patsy.
"You remember. That friend of Papa. She was at one of Aunt Eleanor's Christmas parties. She was - going to entertain for us, and even thought she might get us presented. Oh you must remember! Colonel Woodruffe's wife. Why, he's Alan's colonel
"Oh, yes." Patsy woke up on hearing Alan's name.
"I suppose," she said vaguely, "that means Alan is back in London."
Cynthia's cheeks flushed. It did mean just that. "Charles didn't say anything," said Patsy. "But then he hardly ever goes home nowadays."
"Mrs. Woodruffe says she would like to see us," said Cynthia eagerly. "She says she's at home every Tuesday, and hopes to see us there."
"Oh, I can't," said Patsy immediately "Dennis and I are rehearsing. We've got a new number."
And then seeing how disappointed Cynthia was, she said quickly: . "Why don't you go, Cynthy? Why not?"
Cynthia looked at her nervously. Patsy patted her hand. "You go to Mrs. Woodruffe's, Cynthy. I do remember now, how nice and kind she was. I can't see why you can't go alone. It is 1914, after all."
  MRS. WOODRUFFE rose to meet Cynthia as she came into the sunny drawing-room of the big flat in Buckingham Gate. An Edwardian to her finger-tips, she thought irritably: The little Grafton girl, floating around by herself again. Heavens, will Eleanor Grafton never realize she has a duty to those girls?
If she did remember that Alan had flirted conspicuously with his little cousin at the dance at Maitlands, it was long ago and did not seem to matter very much now. Anyway, rumour had already engaged him to his other cousin, Bessy Beddoes.
Mrs. Woodruffe said: "My dear, I am so glad to see you. Looking so pretty, too. How is your sister? I met your dear father the other evening, and he told me she had taken-up stage work."
Cynthia swallowed a little lump in her throat.
"Oh, there' he is," went on Mrs. Woodruffe. "Alan, Look who is here, your cousin Cynthia, and I do declare she's prettier than ever."
Cynthia's breath caught, and her heart raced. The knight of her childhood dreams, and fantastically he was still the same. She had told herself often that it had been her seventeen-year-old imagination, that if they did meet again, he would be just like any other young man.
But he was not. He was tall, fair, handsome, exactly like the image she had carried in her heart.
Alan, involved in a highly practised flirtation with his captain's wife, turned his head, and saw Cynthia. Her eyes were looking at him with the same undisguised adoration as they had done that Christmas at Maitlands when she was seventeen.
He bowed himself away, and went across to her, his eyes thoughtful. The little thing was still in love with him. After over three years! Alan was quite unreasonably touched.
  Easter passed, and May set in beautifully fine and sunny. If the German government was sabre-rattling, the twins, pursuing their own lives with the purposeful egotism of youth, did not think much about it.
Alan, stationed in London, heard various alarms and rumours, but after languishing on the Rock, he was enjoying himself too much to worry. Charles alone was the prophet of gloom. Patsy was considering an offer "The Two Shamrocks" had received to take their act to America, and Cynthia was in love.
Patsy was putting on her new hat, and discreetly applying a faint pink lip salve when Rorky knocked at her door. "Your cab's here, deary."
Then she tapped no the next door, and Cynthia came out.
Patsy, asked Cynthia where she wanted to be dropped.
"Trafalgar Square, please. I'll take an omnibus or a taxi from there."
"I'm so glad Mrs.Woodruffe has come back," said Patsy, inside the cab,  for Cynthia had been going out quite a lot lately. "Are you going there this afternoon?"
''Yes,'' said Cynthia. Well, it was true. She was meeting Alan in St. James's Park first. But afterwards, she was going on to call on Mrs. Woodruffe.
"She's taking me to the Cavalry Club ball next month."
"How lovely. You must have a new dress, Cynthy. Go to Lucille’s and order one on my account."
A cavalry ball! Patsy closed her eyes, her imagination swinging momentarily in waltz time, thinking of tall, fair young officers.
"I expect you'll see Alan there, now that he's back from Gibraltar, Have you seen him at all? "
"No," said Cynthia quickly, and her heart turned a little sick at the lie. But what could she do? Alan had said they must keep it a secret, especially from the family. 
  As Alan said, it was a pity if they couldn't be in love and keep it to themselves, for a little while.
Cynthia herself would have been quite happy for everyone to know, but she did understand. Alan led such a very public sort of life.
He was always so much in demand. It was very sweet to keep their love just to themselves for a little while.
She hated to tell fibs to Patsy, but Patsy was always so wonderfully understanding. When she knew,she would forgive the deception.

NEXT WEEK: An unexpected and ironic tragedy for the twins