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Authors: Agatha Christie
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kitchen.
By six o'clock that evening, Mrs. Hubbard was once more her efficient self again. She had put notes in all the students' rooms asking them to come and see her before dinner, and when the various summonses were obeyed, she explained that Celia had asked her to arrange matters. They were all, she thought, very nice about it. Even Geneviève, softened by a generous estimate of the value of her compact, said cheerfully that all would be sans rancune and added with a wise air, “One knows that these crises of the nerves occur. She is rich, this Celia, she does not need to steal. No, it is a storm in her head. M. McNabb is right there.”
Len Bateson drew Mrs. Hubbard aside as she came down when the dinner bell rang.
“I'll wait for Celia out in the hall,” he said, “and bring her in. So that she sees it's all right.”
“That's very nice of you, Len.”
“That's O.K., Ma.”
In due course, as soup was being passed round, Len's voice was heard booming from the hall.
“Come along in, Celia. All friends here.”
Nigel remarked waspishly to his soup plate,
“Done his good deed for the day!” but otherwise controlled his tongue and waved a hand of greeting to Celia as she came in with Len's large arm passed round her shoulders.
There was a general outburst of cheerful conversation on various topics and Celia was appealed to by one and the other.
Almost inevitably this manifestation of goodwill died away into a doubtful silence. It was then that Mr. Akibombo turned a beaming face towards Celia and leaning across the table said:
“They have explained me now all that I did not understand. You very clever at steal things. Long time nobody know. Very clever.”
At this point Sally Finch, gasping out, “Akibombo, you'll be the death of me,” had such a severe choke that she had to go out in the hall to recover. And the laughter broke out in a thoroughly natural fashion.
Colin McNabb came in late. He seemed reserved and even more uncommunicative than usual. At the close of the meal and before the others had finished he got up and said in an embarrassed mumble,
“Got to go out and see someone. Like to tell you all first Celia and I - hope to get married next year when I've done my course.”
The picture of blushing misery, he received the congratulations and jeering cat-calls of his friends and finally escaped, looking terribly sheepish.
Celia, on the other side, was pink and composed.
“Another good man gone West,” sighed Len Bateson.
“I'm so glad, Celia,” said Patricia. “I hope you'll be very happy.”
“Everything in the garden is now perfect,” said Nigel. “Tomorrow we'll bring some chianti in and drink your health. Why is our dear Jean looking so grave? Do you disapprove of marriage, Jean?”
“Of course not, Nigel.”
“I always think it's so much better than Free Love, don't you? Nicer for the children. Looks better on their passports.”
“But the mother should not be too young,” said Geneviève. “They tell one that in the Physiology classes.”
“Really, dear,” said Nigel, “you're not suggesting that Celia's below the age of consent or anything like that, are you? She's free, white, and twenty-one.”
“That,” said Mr. Chandra Lal, “is a most offensive remark.”
“No, no, Mr. Chandra Lal,” said Patricia. “It's just a - a kind of idiom. It doesn't mean anything.”
“I do not understand,” said Mr. Akibombo. “If a thing does not mean anything, why should it be said?”
Elizabeth Johnston said suddenly, raising her voice a little,
“Things are sometimes said that do not seem to mean anything but they mean a good deal. No, it is not your American quotation I mean. I am talking of something else.” She looked round the table. “I am talking of what happened yesterday.”
Valèrie said sharply,
“What's up, Bess?”
“Oh, please,” said Celia. “I think - I really do - that by tomorrow everything will be cleared up. I really mean it. The
By six o'clock that evening, Mrs. Hubbard was once more her efficient self again. She had put notes in all the students' rooms asking them to come and see her before dinner, and when the various summonses were obeyed, she explained that Celia had asked her to arrange matters. They were all, she thought, very nice about it. Even Geneviève, softened by a generous estimate of the value of her compact, said cheerfully that all would be sans rancune and added with a wise air, “One knows that these crises of the nerves occur. She is rich, this Celia, she does not need to steal. No, it is a storm in her head. M. McNabb is right there.”
Len Bateson drew Mrs. Hubbard aside as she came down when the dinner bell rang.
“I'll wait for Celia out in the hall,” he said, “and bring her in. So that she sees it's all right.”
“That's very nice of you, Len.”
“That's O.K., Ma.”
In due course, as soup was being passed round, Len's voice was heard booming from the hall.
“Come along in, Celia. All friends here.”
Nigel remarked waspishly to his soup plate,
“Done his good deed for the day!” but otherwise controlled his tongue and waved a hand of greeting to Celia as she came in with Len's large arm passed round her shoulders.
There was a general outburst of cheerful conversation on various topics and Celia was appealed to by one and the other.
Almost inevitably this manifestation of goodwill died away into a doubtful silence. It was then that Mr. Akibombo turned a beaming face towards Celia and leaning across the table said:
“They have explained me now all that I did not understand. You very clever at steal things. Long time nobody know. Very clever.”
At this point Sally Finch, gasping out, “Akibombo, you'll be the death of me,” had such a severe choke that she had to go out in the hall to recover. And the laughter broke out in a thoroughly natural fashion.
Colin McNabb came in late. He seemed reserved and even more uncommunicative than usual. At the close of the meal and before the others had finished he got up and said in an embarrassed mumble,
“Got to go out and see someone. Like to tell you all first Celia and I - hope to get married next year when I've done my course.”
The picture of blushing misery, he received the congratulations and jeering cat-calls of his friends and finally escaped, looking terribly sheepish.
Celia, on the other side, was pink and composed.
“Another good man gone West,” sighed Len Bateson.
“I'm so glad, Celia,” said Patricia. “I hope you'll be very happy.”
“Everything in the garden is now perfect,” said Nigel. “Tomorrow we'll bring some chianti in and drink your health. Why is our dear Jean looking so grave? Do you disapprove of marriage, Jean?”
“Of course not, Nigel.”
“I always think it's so much better than Free Love, don't you? Nicer for the children. Looks better on their passports.”
“But the mother should not be too young,” said Geneviève. “They tell one that in the Physiology classes.”
“Really, dear,” said Nigel, “you're not suggesting that Celia's below the age of consent or anything like that, are you? She's free, white, and twenty-one.”
“That,” said Mr. Chandra Lal, “is a most offensive remark.”
“No, no, Mr. Chandra Lal,” said Patricia. “It's just a - a kind of idiom. It doesn't mean anything.”
“I do not understand,” said Mr. Akibombo. “If a thing does not mean anything, why should it be said?”
Elizabeth Johnston said suddenly, raising her voice a little,
“Things are sometimes said that do not seem to mean anything but they mean a good deal. No, it is not your American quotation I mean. I am talking of something else.” She looked round the table. “I am talking of what happened yesterday.”
Valèrie said sharply,
“What's up, Bess?”
“Oh, please,” said Celia. “I think - I really do - that by tomorrow everything will be cleared up. I really mean it. The
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