A fortnight after the funeral I was busy doing my usual Saturday domestic chores when the phone rang. It was Angela.
"I hope this familiar voice doesn't startle you," she began, bubbling with cheerfulness, "but unless I make my call in broad daylight, you'll miss the party I'm throwing here this evening, and I would so love it if you could join us. Just a quiet gathering, very informal, and wear nothing black because this time we won't ask you to act as waiter, I promise. Do say you can come, Richard, please."
I already had other plans, but before my brain could bring these to the foreground, my heart seized control.
"Angela, I'd love to," it replied at once. "How are you?"
"Surviving," she said in the same bouyant tone. "There's still so much to do, I don't have time for feel sorry for myself. Anyway, tonight is a party. I'm so glad you can make it."
With boundless enthusiasm I thanked her again, asking where and at what time, and should I bring anything?
"My house, seven-thirty, and bring Richard Bird casually dressed. And Richard," she added more softly, "I did ring earlier in the week to explain about something else, but you were out. I'll tell you more tonight if we can snatch a minute to ourselves. I must dash now though, I've got a thousand things to do, but I had to stop and make sure I invited you. Glad I caught you at last. 'Bye!"
Before I could inject another word she'd hung up. Even as I put down the phone I realised she had played the same trick on me as before, leaving me with vital questions still unanswered. Where exactly did Angela live?
Two weeks earlier, and feeling none too frisky, I had blindly followed some disorientated clown over to her house and got thoroughly confused. On the return journey my mind was too preoccupied with other matters to take much notice of my surroundings. Now I wasn't at all sure whether I could find the house again.
But find it I damned well would, even if it took the entire day. Some challenges in life simply have to be overcome, no matter how insurmountable the odds.
First I made an apologetic phone call to a fellow railway enthusiast, cancelling our evening rendezvous. Not wishing to tell an outright lie, I spoke merely of making an unforeseen visit to a recently bereaved friend.
Ten minutes later, I was in my car and heading towards the town centre. It seemed pointless to wait at home in the hope that Angela might phone back with clearer directions. But I knew it was high time I bought myself an answering machine like the one I'd seen in her father's study.
I remembered enough of that Friday to know that Angela lived somewhere near Bookham. Even if an answering-machine was slightly beyond my present means, I could at least afford to buy myself a decent local map.
Walking down the main High Street I happened to pass an estate agents' window where my eye was suddenly drawn to a large photograph, unmistakably of Angela's house, up for sale at well over a million pounds. I was stunned, not only by the price but to learn that Angela's luxurious home was on the market. With this added upheaval, no wonder the poor girl said she was busy.
It made sense though. Why would Angela Partridge need a house of that size all to herself? Even if she and her tiresome boy-friend were planning to get married, newly-weds would hardly aim for something that grand.
Naturally I went inside and asked for details, claiming that my tentative enquiries were on behalf of a rich uncle from Texas. I was told that the house had only just come on the market, its previous owner having died suddenly, and that his executors needing to liquidate the estate without delay. Yes, I could go and see the property in a week's time if I cared to make an appointment.
I muttered something about having one or two more modest dwellings to visit first, and I stepped outside for another look at the photograph. It confirmed that Angela Partridge definitely lived, for the moment at least, in Ovendell Road.
Armed with a new street map I made my way over to Little Bookham and soon located the house with its newly erected FOR SALE sign in the front garden. If I had seen a car on the drive, I might have been tempted to call and offer a helping hand. But it looked as though Angela was out, perhaps shopping for her party, or maybe house-hunting.
I wondered what kind of place she and her boy-friend might choose for themselves. My fertile mind foresaw hasty wedding plans now that her role as Daddy's housedaughter had come to an end.
I also felt a twinge of guilt. What if Angela were to call at the estate agent's office and hear of my fictional uncle's enquiry? My guilt became more than a twinge. I felt I'd done something decidedly underhand. I had been instrumental in deceiving a vulnerable young lady, someone with plans to marry a man who, from my viewpoint, wasn't an ideal choice.
Admittedly I hardly knew the girl, but I was more than ready to put that right. Yet was it fair to pursue my own interests if the girl was about to marry someone else?
How small my own place seemed as I returned home, a sobering contrast with Angela's mansion, yet perfectly adequate for a bachelor living on his own. Unpretentious, yes, but cosy, pleasant and comfortable.
I spent the rest of the afternoon doing housework. I've never minded being my own domestic servant, washing my drip-dry shirts and vacuuming my wall-to-wall carpets. It wasn't a bad little flat, I kept telling myself, and I certainly kept it in good repair.
Recently I had begun to re-decorate the living room, and was half way through repapering. It would need to be finished before I could invite any important visitor round for dinner. And as that thought entered my head, I knew beyond doubt who my next guest would to be, even if she did insist on bringing her wretched fiancé.
As evening approached, I wondered what the term "casual" implied in the Partridge household. Did it mean you didn't dress for dinner? Was a tie, even a sporty one, a foregone conclusion?
In the end I played safe. It's better to arrive overdressed and to strip down, than to turn up in something embarrassingly informal like a vest full of holes or those frayed jeans which some folk seem to regard as "trendy." Was I in danger of becoming a snob? I hoped not, but I do believe in honouring the standards of my own upbringing.
At seven-fifteen I got into my car and headed for Little Bookham when a curious thought struck me. What kind of a party was I going to? Might I need perhaps to make a quick getaway?
Seriously, you never know these days. Get yourself invited to the wrong sort of party where every other guest high on drugs - a well-meaning neighbour phones the police about the decline of moral standards, and you can end up in court, innocent of any involvement but with a tarnished reputation, just by mixing with the wrong crowd. I didn't know that much about Angela and her friends, so I parked well clear of the house, and felt unusually apprehensive as I rang the Partridge bell.
I needn't have worried. My vibrant hostess greeted me with a warm and friendly hug, made even more pleasurable by the trace of an exotic perfume. She was wearing a full-length skirt and a multi-coloured silk blouse. Her hair was loose, and her face looked naturally fresh. Hers was the beauty of honest soap and water, not of skilfully applied powder and paint. She seemed a very different Angela from the sad girl I met fifteen days earlier. She also looked twice as adorable.
"Do you want to be introduced as Dick or Richard," she asked.
"Whatever you like," I replied. "If you feel I look like a Richard, so be it. If you think I'm a prize Dick, that's no less than I probably deserve."
"I like Richard," she decided. "It sounds intelligent and highly respectable."
I assured her it was. "Is it tactful to ask what this party's in aid of? You did say don't bring anything, so I haven't."
"It's two things," she explained. "It's a blowing-away-the-cobwebs party, in aid of Angela Partridge's new free image, which means you can shed that tie and jacket if you wish. But it's also a goodbye-dear-old-house party. You must have seen the ugly sign in the garden, telling the neighbours we're now up for sale."
I nodded and smiled to myself.
"Of course," I commented carefully, "it is a big house for one. Even for two."
"Daddy entertained lots of important guests," she went on. "My own guests are equally important to me, but they don't have such high expectations. I've lived here ever since I left school though. I'm going to miss it."
I wanted so much to be kind to her. "Where will you go?"
"Haven't found anywhere yet," she confided. "But whatever it is, it'll seem a big let-down after this. I hope that doesn't sound snobbish, Richard, it's not meant to - but a place like this is all I've ever known. It'll be a whole new adventure for me, that's for sure."
"Well," I reminded her, "you have my phone number if ever you need a comforting voice."
She made no comment as she led me through to the kitchen. With the house now on the market, I found myself viewing its contents from a new perspective, like seeing a show-house in a magazine.
The kitchen contained every appliance that money could buy - a giant fridge-freezer with built-in ice dispenser, the inevitable dish-washer, a six-ringed gas cooker with eye-level grill, a microwave, a coffee-maker, food-mixer, electric tin-opener, electric knife, rubbish disposal unit - you name it.
"We all seem to be gathered in the kitchen," Angela said. "Heaven knows why - the rest of the house is immaculate. But here's where the drinks are, so help yourself. Please don't anyone slosh beer over the carpets or curtains as they're staying with the house."
"I'll try to behave," I grinned as the door bell summoned her again. I helped myself to a gin and tonic and then wandered around looking for someone to talk to. The trouble was, the only person I wanted to talk to kept disappearing to answer her own front door.
I moved from room to room, partly for my own interest and partly to see whom else I might recognise from the day of the funeral. The house was fascinating, furnished throughout with tasteful artefacts, many of which would now have to find new owners. This made me sad. They probably each held great sentimental value for Angela, yet she couldn't possibly house them all in a small flat.
It must be hard for anyone to see treasures they've known all their lives going to total strangers who assess them only on their intrinsic value, devoid of any nostalgia or sentiment. I wanted to be able to help Angela through this crisis, in fact - let me be honest - I wanted more than that. The plain truth was that I wanted to spend my entire time with Angela. If only I'd been first in the queue.
I couldn't see any sign of the tall chap she'd greeted with such fervour before. I wondered who he was, and how he fitted into her life. Their relationship had looked undeniably well-established when I'd seen them standing together in the hall. I resolved to make discreet enquiries.
In the hall I passed a courting couple entwined in each other's arms like bindweed, totally oblivious to my presence. I blundered on into a dimly lit library where more couples had sought seclusion.
The study was surprisingly empty, and I took the opportunity to look at Angela's answering machine with a view to getting one myself. Of course, I couldn't help noticing Angela's phone number, so I jotted it down in my diary for future reference.
In the kitchen I found some newcomers. Angela introduced me as her "good friend Richard" to a girl called Binnie, who'd apparently come to the party unescorted. She latched onto me straight away, demanding full details of my long association with our hostess. Since the truth was essentially private, I trotted out a simple tale about meeting her at an event in Europe, a story so vague it avoided telling an actual lie.
"You must have been lucky to get near her," Binnie gushed. "Old Sir Daddy was a Grade A stickler when it came to allowing Angie to meet up with boys." She uttered the word "boys" as a small child might refer to "worms".
I told her I'd managed to crawl under the wire fence where all others had failed, and changed the subject by asking if she and Angela were old school chums.
"We all are - except for those with deep voices," she snorted like a mule. "We had a thing at school about who would stay single till she was thirty, and knowing her father as we did, our Angie became hot favorite. But now the gate's wide open."
"And Miss Partridge is free to jump wherever she will - though I presume from our surroundings, she's not going to starve."
Binnie looked down her nose. "A classic error, Richard, to judge a man's wealth by the way he's already spent it."
She sucked noisily on her Bacardi and Coke, and edged nearer.
"Old Sir Daddy lived dangerously close to the lion's mouth when it came to finances. Rumour has it," she added in a hot whisper that tickled, "he took an almighty tumble in the City shortly before he died. That may be what caused it, who's to say? These city financiers live by selling what they haven't yet got, and buying what they don't want, in order to come out at the end of the month with smiles on their faces and tears elsewhere. Some of it may be instinct, with possibly a little inside info, but the rest is as chancy as the pools. Who knows? Certainly not little Binnie. But I don't think much of what you see here is going to end up in a Partridge pocket. Our mutual friend has to face major readjustments ..."
Binnie might have revealed more, but Angela came hurrying towards us.
"Binnie, love, you've simply got to come and meet Oliver, the chap who took a fancy to the old Virgin. It's Virginia really," she explained, "but the nickname seemed most apt. We were convinced she was doomed to eternal maidenhood."
"Are there certain things one of us ought to explain to her?" suggested Binnie with a mischievous grin. "She may have forgotten that naughty stuff the blushing Miss Graves once divulged in the fourth form. I doubt if Virginia really believed any of it."
"Go and meet Oliver first," Angela advised, pointing her in the direction of the kitchen.
Once Binnie was out of earshot, I seized the chance for a quiet word.
"Your friend was keen to know how we first met, so I truthfully said it was on European soil a while ago when I took time off work. We don't want the whole world to know about your impromptu bird-call."
"An astute judgement of her character, Richard. The world will know within minutes anything you tell that girl. Binnie collects gossip like a honey-bee gathers pollen."
I resolved to catch Binnie again to find out what she knew about Angela's mystery boy-friend.
"So, shall I tell the next enquirer that we worked together behind Tesco's meat counter?"
"Say we met at the Regent's Garden Hotel in Paris," Angela decided. "We've been secret pen-pals ever since."
The idea sounded good. "And what deep secrets did you share with me?"
"All lies," she beamed wickedly. "Say what you like. Just keep my reputation intact if you don't mind. It's about all I've got left these days."
"Apart from that boy-friend of yours," I threw in.
"Ah! If only life were that simple," she replied cryptically, and sidled away with a provocative smile to answer the door.
Back in the kitchen Binnie was spreading her ideas freely, talking to an unlikely couple who I assumed had to be Virginia and Oliver. The Virgin was a dumpy girl and, despite being a contemporary of the rest, she looked at least forty. She had big teeth protruding from an ample mouth like unstable tombstones, while her hair was swept back into a severe bun, reminiscent of a greying porcupine.
Oliver stood attentively listening to Binnie's latest news.
"His name's Richard Bird," she elaborated, "and apparently they met on holiday in the South of France. The artful chap slipped under an electric fence her old man installed around their Mediterranean villa ..."
"Fortunately," I intervened, "I always carry wire cutters and a pair of rubber gloves for just such an emergency."
"I've been telling them how you and Angela met," Binnie blushed "I assume it's no secret, not now she's free from ... you know ... best say no more."
"Actually, I don't know what Binnie's been telling you," I said, "but it all happened in Paris."
"Paris! Oh!" Virginia's hands flew to her cheeks in a gesture of admiration and envy. "How romantic! A villa set in the heart of Paris. Did you go up the Eiffel Tower?"
"Doesn't everyone?" I replied with dismissive worldliness. "Tell me, who's the human Eiffel Tower whom Angela goes around with these days?"
They stared back so blankly that I felt I'd made a faux-pas till I spotted the man himself, standing alone in the drawing room. I pointed him out to the others.
"Over there," I whispered. "The tall guy - he's been visiting Angie a lot recently. Anyone know who he is?"
I aimed the question squarely at Binnie, but she shook her head. The fact that nobody recognised him was encouraging. Angela's friends all knew who I was. Why hadn't she introduced them to him? I took my leave and wandered over.
He stood by the french windows, gazing out across the back garden and taking occasional sips of pale sherry.
"Greetings," I exclaimed with breezy initiative. "Richard Bird."
My extended hand was grasped half-heartedly and pumped up and down once. Perhaps he was concerned about spilling sherry on Angela's carpet.
"Simon," he replied simply.
"Yes, I gather you're a close friend of our delightful hostess," I said. "You must know her better than most, so tell me honestly - man to man - how's she bearing up?"
"Angela?" he mused loftily. "One can't easily tell. They were very close-knit, she and Sir George. She became his housekeeper and confidant, you know, as well as being the daughter."
"Gave her everything she wanted, I suppose."
"Gave her very little, in my opinion. Took plenty though, including the best years of her life. She's had no youth, d'you see? Now suddenly, here she stands, knocking on the door of thirty."
"Indeed. And when will thirty be persuaded to let her in?"
"Sorry?" He regarded me with weary disdain.
I tried again. "I thought perhaps this occasion was to mark her birthday. But Angela's still in the prime of life, a perfect match for some lucky chap, there's no doubt about that."
"Well, I'm her man," Simon staked his claim. "We haven't set a date yet - too soon after the other business, one must realise. But it's only a matter of time before she becomes a baroness. I'm the seventh Baron Courtney-Ellis."
"Good for you," I exclaimed as if he'd just won a bronze medal. "So you'll be taking her away from all this."
He looked confused. "Why?"
"I assumed from the sign outside that you plan to move to some baronial hall, surrounded by acres of parkland and a herd of deer."
"As indeed we might, were it not for the greed of the Inland Revenue who in recent years have reduced my family's inherited wealth to a mere handful of silver."
"What rotten luck!" I sympathised.
"A title these days is worth no more intrinsically than a gold bar on a desert island."
I offered the dry comment that both could be considered noble assets.
"I'm sorry?" he repeated with the same weariness. Either he was dull-witted, or it was his way of putting down peasants who sought to socialise above their class.
"So where will you be living?" I asked brightly. "I may want to send Baroness Whatever-you-said a Christmas card."
"Oh, it won't be before Christmas," he replied.
"I hope you'll have room for all this fine furniture," I remarked. "I'm sure it's of great sentimental value to Lady Angela."
"Then I see no reason for it not remaining here, do you?"
"Here?" I queried. "Forgive me, but doesn't the sign outside warn of potential purchasers, trampling through, looking for souvenirs?"
"Sign? Sign? What sign? Where?" he demanded, as if I were clearly mistaken.
I explained it was in the front garden and almost added that only a fool could have missed it.
He glared angrily. "You mean Angela's thinking of selling this property?"
"It may not be Angela's choice," I said, "but there is a FOR SALE sign in the front garden."
"But why?"
"Perhaps it's your family's bête-noire," I said, "the Commissioners of Inland Revenue, pounding their fists on the lid of the Partridge coffin."
The tall Baron gained another inch as he looked about him like a lost mariner in the crow's nest. "Angela?" he boomed loftily as though I were no longer necessary. "Angela? Where are you?"
The future baroness appeared at once. "Ah, Simon, I'm glad you two have met," she exclaimed. "Richard was very kind and helpful to me when Father died. Simon's an old friend who's been chasing me for years, poor darling. Has he told you his full name? He is Simon Argyle Porberry Courtney-Ellis, seventh Baron of Darnley. His visiting cards come a lot wider than yours, Richard."
"What's this I hear about selling the house, Angela?" Simon boomed with cold indifference to my presence.
I felt a duty to explain. "I made a passing reference to the FOR SALE sign in your front garden," I said, "not intending to give away any secrets. Maybe someone plans to buy it as a wedding present."
Angela's expression changed dramatically. The light-hearted party hostess became again the sad lonely soul in need of friendship.
"The lawyers say it must go, Simon, because of death duties. I'm hoping I can find somewhere more practical with whatever's left over."
"You didn't tell me," he accused her, as though his right to sit in the House of Lords allowed him to talk pompously to anyone denied that privilege.
The corners of Angela's mouth twitched visibly and I longed to put my arms around her. Her voice sounded dangerously brittle.
"Simon, I've had a very, very trying three weeks. There's been a hell of a lot to do, all on my own, and I haven't bloody well had time to send everyone daily bulletins about everything that's going on right now. Excuse me."
High emotion hardened her tone, and Angela seemed on the verge of losing her temper. But she took a deep breath, regained her composure at once and smiled at both of us in turn. I swear mine carried more sincerity than the sample paraded for her titled friend.
"The lady has spoken," I remarked as she swept out of the room.
"Angela should have told me," Simon insisted, striving to regain the buoyancy of a deflated ego.
"And I'm sure she will at the first opportunity," I placated him. "But tonight is a party, my friend, not a forum for concern about the dissolution of the Partridge estate. Shall we go in search of refills? I've been clutching an empty glass for ten minutes."
From the kitchen came the refreshing hubbub of light-hearted girlish chatter. Among the group I saw Betty whom Angela had several times referred to as a very close friend. So I decided to have a quiet word about Simon the Baron, since I was finding it hard to work up much joy for the happy couple.
"Betty," I said. "Remember me? Have you time for a brief chat?"
She reacted at once with her instant warm-hearted smile. "Richard, you lovely boy! Yes, why not, as long as we make sure our glasses don't crack from lack of moisture. What poison are you taking on board this evening?"
I asked wickedly if she had any Prussic Acid, quickly adding that I'd settle instead for a gin and tonic.
"I think we're down to the last bottle of Prussic," she retorted, "and I'm holding that in reserve for my next bad day. As for the gin, I'm on the same diet myself and there's not a lot left out here. So, let's raid the secret reserves in the library, eh? Come on. Special privilege for Angie's best buddies."
I followed her through to the library, now thankfully free of intimate couples. Betty refilled our glasses from a cocktail cabinet which contained its own refrigerator.
"Reminds me of those mini-bar things you find in continental hotels," she said. "Know the ones I mean? Where you pay five quid for a glass of pineapple juice? Don't worry - tonight's booze is on the house."
"It is rumoured that I once stayed in Paris," I remarked. "In the Regent's Garden Hotel, where the official record says I first met Angela."
Betty gave an understanding nod. "Whom in reality you've known only since the memorable night before the funeral," she smiled. "Cheers!"
We each raised our glasses, took a long swig, and sank onto a deep leather couch. Its glossy upholstery creaked disconcertingly as we moved, making vulgar suggestive sounds enough to dispel any romantic notion the previous couple might have had.
"Are you married?" I asked. It proved to be another tactless remark.
"Not any more," she sighed. "It didn't work out for me, so we split up. Can't say I'm sorry in some ways, but I'd love to be given a fresh start, and I miss my little fellow like crazy."
"Oh, Betty, I am sorry, I didn't realise. He still lives with his father?"
"Yes, and a bloody long way off too, right across the Atlantic. I flew over last Christmas, but it was a hell of a strain. I howled like a jilted school-girl when I got back."
"I am sorry," I said, "I'd no idea. I assume Angela knows all this?"
Betty laughed loudly. "Of course. We have no secrets, Muffet and I. And I've a feeling it's Angela you wanted to talk about, right? Okay, but I warn you, I never betray confidences, even to a Samaritan like you."
"I wouldn't want you to," I lied. "But I've just met Baron Simon Ponce-whistle, whatever his name is. He reckons he's going to marry Angela, and that's a thought which sits in my digestive system like a concrete brick."
"You'd rather she held off awhile, then married you instead, huh?"
As I was soon to discover, Betty always laid her cards face up on the table.
I protested, saying I'd only met the girl twice.
"But since you ask," I went on, "yes, dammit, I would rather she found me a more attractive proposition than that self-opinionated Lord of the Isles back there. So I wondered if you knew how serious they were about getting married? And you can't claim an engagement's confidential. Do they really intend to become man and wife?"
"Or, as some might say, woman and husband?"
"Touché! But seriously, is this romance for real, or just a fantasy in the mind of a baron?"
Betty looked me straight in the eye. She knew something, but she wasn't about to give away facts that I could easily figure it out for myself.
"There are certain men, Richard, who believe that anything in life is possible if you have enough influence or enough money. One of them died in this house very recently. Another you met five minutes ago. Notice anything else about Simon?"
"He took offence at not being consulted about the sale of this house."
"Okay. Read something into that."
"So the house must be important to him, as if it's part of a deal."
"Good boy," she smiled. "One might say, he saw the opportunity of acquiring a free home by marrying its cute little occupant."
"He did hint that not all titled lords receive a lifelong supply of luncheon vouchers."
"I see you were impressed," she said, pausing shrewdly before she continued. "Richard, in my experience a girl in love seldom talks about anyone except the man of her dreams, and I've heard sweet-all about Simon from the lips of our mutual friend. Need I say more?"
I grinned my relief.
"Furthermore," she added, "if I owned a house this size, I'd be damned choosy whom I shared it with, however long his stupid name and wherever in Westminster he was allowed to park his bottom."
My relief became laughter. "You're a good friend, Betty, and I wish you all the luck in the world, I really mean that."
"And I hope that you, Richard, soon find the girl of your dreams, even if she isn't already under this very roof."
"The girl of my dreams, eh? Most apt, but it's early days yet. Dammit, I've only known her two weeks."
"You know what they say about birds and worms, Richard, not that I wish to apply that unfortunate metaphor to such a sweet child as Angela. But we share a great many confidences, Angela and I."
Betty rose from the couch to imply she had revealed all she intended.
"There was one other thing," I added as we left the room. "Angela said on the phone she wanted to explain something, but so far she hasn't had a chance. Any idea what that was about?"
"I'd say that's something we've already discussed, wouldn't you?" Betty's sharp glance told me to use my imagination. "And now we'd better go feed ourselves before the gannets peck up the last crumbs."
"Talking of food," I said, "if I were to invite you and Angela over to my humble pad for a meal one evening, do you think it would go down well?"
"The invitation or the food?"
"Both."
"One of us would be delighted to accept, Richard, thank you. As to the other, I recommend you go and ask. You may gain comfort from her reply."
In the dining-room, guests were queuing patiently at the buffet table, helping themselves to cold meats, scotch eggs, cheese and salad. Angela saw us enter together and gave a curious stare, almost of envy.
"I wondered where you'd had got to," she said crisply.
"We hid somewhere for a quiet chat," Betty explained.
Angela nodded slowly. "I see."
Betty countered with strong denial. "No you don't, dear. We were merely making arrangements concerning food. Your cue, Richard."
As I repeated my dinner invitation, Betty looked at Angela, and Angela looked at Betty.
"Name your day," Angela suggested.
I offered her Thursday, Friday or Saturday.
"Any day's fine with me," said Betty, "and Friday would be ideal."
Angela nodded. "I think I'm free on Friday too."
Friday was not a good day for me, but most appointments can be rescheduled when necessary.
"Friday it is, then."
"I've got Richard's address," Angela affirmed. "What time do you want us?"
I said seven-thirty would be ideal, and asked about their gastronomic preferences.
"We're both omnivorous," Betty volunteered. "A legacy from boarding school. Seven-thirty on Friday, then. Splendid!"
"One other detail," I added cautiously. "Is it all right inviting just the two of you? If anyone else feels left out, I'll gladly make it open house as long as I have enough warning."
Again the two chums exchanged knowing glances before Angela replied.
"The two of us will be just fine," she said, "which reminds me, there was something I promised to explain, but I can't at the moment. If I don't get a chance this evening, I hope you can hold out till Friday. We'll be on our own then, unless you're planning to invite other guests?"
"No," I said. "I'll be expecting just the two of you."
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