Read Online Pursuit of a Parcel by Patricia Wentworth - Free Book Online Page A

colour, which gave Delia a dazzling fairness, only emphasized her own pallor. Her large pale eyes gazed earnestly at Mrs. Canterbury.
    Lillian Canterbury shook her very pretty head. No one had ever seen it with a hair out of place. The smooth grey waves framed a delicately tinted face. Her eyes were periwinkle-blue, and her dress matched them.
    â€œWe all lay down and died when we saw the gussets.”
    Cynthia giggled again. “Darling Mrs. Canterbury—what is a gusset? It sounds awfully improper.”
    Miss Murdle took upon herself to explain.
    Delia Merridew, on her knees cutting out, considered that Cynthia had brought it on herself. She would now have to listen to Miss Murdle for at least five minutes, and it really served her right. As she got up she heard her own name from fat old Mrs. Blake, and turned to see that lady’s wide, amiable smile directed upon her.
    Mrs. Blake had a face which always reminded Delia of a well-floured scone with a couple of those small black currants stuck in it for eyes—it was so round and so soft, and she put such a lot of powder on it.
    â€œI hope, my dear, that you have good news of Antony. I mustn’t ask where he is, I suppose. Somewhere in England, I hope.”
    Delia wanted to laugh, and Delia wanted to cry. Antony mimicking what people would say, and Mrs. Blake saying it just like that. “I hope he is somewhere in England.” Antony — where are you — where are you? She lost Mrs. Blake and the work-party. She was back in the study with Antony. They had stood there in the night and kissed. He had mimicked what people would say—
    Mrs. Blake’s voice flowed on, reaching her again.
    â€œI am sure he writes to you whenever he can, my dear.”
    The moisture in the eyes and the catch in the voice recommended by Antony came upon Delia without any need to feign them. She began to say something, and never knew what it was, because Cynthia struck in, tearing herself from Miss Murdle.
    â€œI bet he doesn’t write. None of my boys do once they get away. It’s a case of findings is keepings, and somebody else always seems to find them.”
    Mrs. Barrock turned an awful gaze. She had eyes uncomfortably like small bullseyes set prominently between high cheekbones and a determined brow. She had also a very determined chin. She said in her deepest voice,
    â€œI should hardly think you would be proud of your inability to keep your friends, Cynthia.”
    Cynthia giggled and tossed a head with the latest curls arranged in the latest way. She wasn’t really pretty, but she had very good ankles and a roving eye. The way in which she acquired young men was only less interesting to Wayshot than the rapidity with which she changed them. She was the doctor’s daughter, and the kinder hearts forgave her much because she had no mother, and was undeniably fond of their adored Dr. Kyrle.
    Mrs. Canterbury took one of her infrequent stitches and said in the languid tone which always carried surprisingly, “I love Antony Rossiter, and if I was twenty years younger I should certainly do my best to find him and keep him.”
    Mrs. Barrock fixed her with the bullseyes.
    â€œCharming young men are never to be trusted. Mr. Rossiter is a great deal too goodlooking to be trustworthy. I gave Mr. Merridew my opinion on the subject years ago.” Under the impression that she had lowered her voice sufficiently to be confidential, she continued, “Of course he paid no attention—men never do until it is too late.”
    The needle was suspended, the periwinkle eyes were lifted sympathetically.
    â€œThat is so true. But what a good thing, or we should never be able to marry them. They go into a sort of trance and don’t come round until, as you say, it is too late, and then they just have to make the best of us, poor dears.”
    Mrs. Barrock blinked. “That is not what I meant at all. Delia should have some elderly